


Annotated

by Lucy_Ferrier



Category: The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Literature Student Toby, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Toby Hamilton is a Repressed Nerd, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27517060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucy_Ferrier/pseuds/Lucy_Ferrier
Summary: It didn’t matter, he told himself; no one had ever cared for his fascination for analysis and stories. His mother had despaired, to a degree, when Toby had told her exactly which course he was looking at. He could have done complex physics, pure mathematics; when Freddie had enlisted, she’d said that if he cared so much for analysis, he could have been a codebreaker.
Relationships: Toby Hamilton/Adil Joshi
Comments: 40
Kudos: 12





	1. When We Were Very Young (Prologue) – February, 1924

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this post](https://szonklin.tumblr.com/post/616962513009016832/ohohohohoh-can-i-add-to-thisso-imagine-little) that i suddenly remember several months after the fact and really wanted to write. and shoutout to the discord for helping be brainstorm and in some cases straight up gifting me ideas, you guys are amazing x

She watched the boys as they played, Freddie running circles around Toby, who was intensely focused on colouring in the boxes on the newspaper, attempting, with almost entire success, not to allow the ink to reach the hardwood floor, or more importantly, the new rug Lawrence had spent far too much money on. He liked to spend money like that, as if he didn’t care and it didn’t matter. Priscilla supposed, that for him, it never really had. Not that it crossed her mind all that frequently these days either.

February sleet hammered against the windows, counting down the minutes and moments until the twins’ fifth birthday at the end of the month, trapping her inside the country house with two small boys who would both have preferred to have been running rampant outside, Freddie climbing trees, promising one day he’d touch the sky, Toby catching bugs and butterflies, cradling them gently against his chest and offering her that gap-toothed grin, a backlog of questions waiting until everyone else was out of earshot. Priscilla imagined that Toby was the sort of child who would always be full of questions, that desperate need for answers, to make sense of everything around him. 

They would have gone birthday shopping that day, if not for the weather. As it were, what was going to happen, in the next two days, was that the weather would break and the sun would peak out; white and watery but nonetheless, present and accounted for. But they would not go to London for the day – Priscilla would not trouble the man for a cab nor a car. She would wait, let the boys play and pretend she wasn’t watching their every movement; the pair closely attended by the old woman they were due to outgrow by September. Freddie would figure out how to climb onto the roof, not yet crushed and broken down into that carbon copy puppet of Lawrence. Toby was going to get a bee sting; catching sight of the hive far above, begging Freddie to remind him how to climb so he could see inside, to find out all the things that bees did in secret. The tears would pass quickly; later he would shyly offer the bee husk to Priscilla, clutched in his hand like a secret, the welt above his temple already beginning to subside.

By the time Priscilla returned to London, it had been another handful of days, her presence pulled from her boys’ periphery only due to the function thrown by the Ashworths; her husband requesting her ornamentation on his arm. Though her marriage had turned brittle before her pregnancy had even ended, Priscilla had yet to find the courage to confront Lawrence beyond snipes about lipstick and hickeys, cheap perfume and a broken faux-pearl necklace.

She had not wandered London, mostly on her own, in such a very long time; but the event had ended in the small hours of the morning, leaving many of the guests still asleep or hungover – and all the lords knew Priscilla wouldn’t be caught _dead_ hungover anymore - and Lawrence had found himself otherwise occupied with a blonde in a brothel, and well. The staff might miss her, but even that might be a stretch.

She still had money in her bag from before she’d left London before Christmas, and more than enough tabs she could add to on her husband’s behalf. And Margaret had been more than happy to join her. It was always nice to spend time with friends.

Finding a present for Freddie was always going to be easy; though the winter holidays had a tendency to make birthday shopping that much harder, model planes were made by the dozen; always a new one in stock, with varying complexity in its assembly. At the very least, he’d proven himself able to manage the smaller and simpler models. And Lawrence would approve. Though Priscilla thought it cruel to encourage a future so early, especially of the nature Lawrence was thinking of, at the very least, perhaps, she could save her son the terror of being a sitting duck on a sinking ship.

Toby though… in as much as he liked to ask questions, he asked about _everything._ Unlike his brother, there seemed to be no particular thing that had caught Toby’s attention that he hadn’t already stripped bare and run practically dry. He liked all the things that normal little boys liked – grass and bugs and mud, but also scribbling and stories and teddies. He could focus on something for hours, and the end result would either be him babbling excitedly about it as fast as he could in the next half hour – something that drove Lawrence up the wall – or surprised blinking at how much time had passed, unable to comprehend why he was in trouble or that it was hours past his bedtime. The last thing he’d gotten excited about was bees, and look where that had landed him.

Margaret refused to enter the bookshop, stating that it was well beneath the two of them to be entering a second-hand bookshop, that the pair of them were likely to come down with something related to the black mould and spotted mildew that undoubtedly crawled up and down the walls and into the pages of the books, intertwining with the print and coffee stains. Priscilla rolled her eyes. Though it had been six years since she’d married Lawrence, something that had, to a degree, given her a social standing that caught attention, there were times still, when she forgot that some of the sillier social guidelines. Lawrence had assured her in the past that she would forget the silliness of them eventually, that she’d be as much as a stickler as Margaret Ashworth eventually. She shuddered at the thought, furious that she would likely prove him right in the long run – already there were plenty of places from her childhood she wouldn’t dare _mention_ let alone return to ever again.

Priscilla left Margaret on the sidewalk in a huff, smiling at the indignancy on her friend’s face. The shop was slightly too stuffy to be called homey, but the air was dry and the walls bare of mould, mildew, and any other kind of spore. She ducked her head as she wandered to the back of the shop, away from the eyes of the riffraff who looked up as she entered. It was strange, being so obviously titled; clothes that she wore every day now instead of just on Sundays and to events, wearing the kind of jewellery that her father had only bought for her mother on special occasions and anniversaries. She’d never led the life of the hungry faces that stared after her curiously now, but it felt strange, even after all this time, to be that one last step further than before. She wondered anxiously, if she’d made a mistake, if Margaret had unwittingly been correct.

Her shoulders relaxed from their haughty posture once the shelves tucked her entirely away from the world, the scent of books, not all of which were all that old, coating her tongue and getting caught on her tonsils. She couldn’t quite bring herself to trace their spines, that aristocratic cringe working its way into her muscles. Many of the spines were old and crumbling, held together with little more than their dust jackets. It made for a good excuse when it took Priscilla that many moments to realise that she was, in fact, in the children’s section.

The book looked nearly perfectly new – a small nick in the dust cover the only betrayal to its status. With a cursory glance, one last confirmation that she was alone, Priscilla pulled it gently from the shelf and allowed it to fall open in her hands.

The publication date confirmed that the book was almost entirely brand-new, could only have been released in the last two months. Priscilla raised an eyebrow at that, already having doubts about the quality of a book that must have been given up almost immediately as she re-examined the cover. _When We Were Very Young, by A. A. Milne, decorations by E. H. Shepard_ it stated in neat block lettering, four inked sketches in each corner. The boy in the bottom left corner, wearing a paper crown and draped in a blanket robe made her smile, charming as he was, making her think of one of the games Toby and Freddie had played together earlier in the week. Little kings and princes.

The poems were simple, designed for children and perhaps nearly too young for Toby. Priscilla frowned when she spied the penmanship, neat and looping, in the margins and alongside the lines, the dark blue ink blatantly juxtaposing the original text. Skimming it made her frown further; who on earth was writing analysis on children’s poetry? Though there was more than one cheeky comment between the cheery critic, more than one forcing Priscilla to press her lips together to suppress her smile. She’d have to read through it to make sure it was all appropriate for her son… and truly, he was likely to be too old to have such stories read to him… but. They were both due to start school later that year. Priscilla imagined that Toby would take to reading like a duck to water if given the appropriate encouragement.

Possibly he’d hate it when he saw that Freddie was getting another, new, toy plane. She’d have to get him something new to go with it… but all in all, Priscilla was finding herself more and more charmed with the idea.

The storekeeper blinked at her when she offered her payment, timidly stating that he didn’t have enough change for such a note. Priscilla simply raised an eyebrow at that, and attempted, somewhat poorly, to hide her smirk as she looked down at him, pushing the note back at him, retrieving the book and spinning on her heel before she could catch sight of his gaping face. She didn’t need the money; her husband wouldn’t miss it. And she’d rather leave now than cause a fuss trying to break the note elsewhere, when she was likely to come up with the same such problem in every shop along the street.

Margaret sniffed imperiously when she caught sight of Priscilla exiting the shop, but Priscilla couldn’t help but smirk at the way her shoulders sagged in relief at her return regardless. Margaret eyed the brown paper bag tucked under her arm and sniped something about a teashop not far away, that perhaps they should call a cab before Priscilla disappeared elsewhere again.

They did go to the teashop, and Priscilla did find a plane for Freddie, and a puzzle game for Toby to go with the book, satisfied that someone would ensure that their birthday was further bulked up with meaningless expensive toys and a surplus of sugar. The teashop was open and performative as ever – it reminded her perhaps too much of the family’s table sat in the centre of the Halcyon’s dining room. As much as Priscilla didn’t care to display herself yet, the tea was pleasant enough, the cakes not too sweet. It was a pleasant enough morning, and it left her with a pleasant enough time to return to the country house, away from the prying eyes of London, and Lawrence’s trail of scandals. One day people would be so used to it all that no one would care to cause gossip over Lord Hamilton’s social life, until then, Priscilla was happy to pretend it wasn’t happening.

Sure enough, she had her bags once again packed and stacked later that same afternoon, a first-class train ticket tucked in her purse, and a car waiting to drop her at the station, Lawrence expectantly absent as ever. The city faded into the rolling planes of the countryside, the drizzle thundered into a proper rainfall, and the days pounded against the windowpane, one after another, tumbling together as her pen flowed across the pages of the book, black ink stark against the blue annotations, cursive handwriting a pretty paradox to the short lines of the poetry, until it all stumbled through the morning frame of the 28th, and the twins’ birthday, at last.

There was indeed, a surplus of expensive toys and over-sugared foods; Lawrence, in his copious amounts of spare time having waved a hand in the general direction of someone or other, who had snapped their fingers at another, until every new children’s toy and entertainment had found its way to their drawing-room, the Milne book tucked away and overshadowed by it all.

Later she would whisper to Toby, in the dark after his brother had fallen asleep, would whisper the words to no particular poem as she flicked through the book, watching as he giggled as quietly as he could, like he could keep this moment just for them, watched later when his eyelids fluttered shut and his breathing eased, the book tucked under one arm, and a teddy tucked under the other.

…

September rolled around like a storm cloud, and Priscilla grieved the blank face of Freddie, the terror of Toby, at the prospect of a train ride, alone, to a school they had never seen, away from everything they had ever known.

Tear tracks had remained ever-present on Toby’s face in the last few days; Lawrence, in his infinite masculine wisdom, had decided that, as the boys were due to leave for boarding school, it meant that, of course, they must now be practically grown. Toby, ever anxious about leaving, had been beyond hysterical when he’s woken to find those ever-present childhood comforts missing; the bear he’d had since infancy, the blanket who’s corner he’d liked to chew on when he was scared, threadbare from where he’d picked it apart. Too childish, Lawrence had said. No son of his would be accused of being childish at school, he’d sworn. Freddie, six months on from those giggly days in February, already knew better than to cry in front of his father. One last thing taken from them, Lawrence systematically shredding away a happy childhood and replacing it with something cold and blank and cruel.

Peaking out from Toby’s satchel, Priscilla spied the book; far more worn than it had been when she’d found it in the shop, well-loved even though Toby had yet to learn to read it, sticky fingerprints tracing the lines of the illustrations. Books, it would seem, were the one thing he could slip by his father, under the guise of study rather than comfort.

She watched as two small boys climbed into the car, saw the driver close the door after them, nod to Lawrence, and pull out the drive. She watched the car fade into the distance down that country road, imagined them being guided to a station then a platform, then a train by someone who wasn’t her.

Priscilla stood beside her husband on the painstakingly manicured lawn of the country house, bid farewell to her sons, and watched them leave. She kept her face blank, tried not to flinch when Freddie farewelled her with _mother_ instead of _mummy,_ and did not crack when Toby’s eyes welled with tears again when she did not hug him good-bye.

Lady Hamilton stood beside her Lord outside his country estate, watching as she sent her children away, and did not follow.


	2. The Secret Garden – October, 1939

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One

There would be more than one book poking out of his satchel when Toby rushed off to the train station this time, but the tear tracks had long since become absent from his face at the prospect of returning to study. Battles on the mainland, and the thought of Freddie taking barely a week after the war was declared to rush off to join the air force; nothing could yet touch the thrill of having everything pay off exactly as it was meant to. All the paperwork, the exams, the grades and study, all of it must have been worth it, if it meant that Toby was going to his university of choice, in exactly the course he wanted. He did not yet know the terror of the bombs, the fear of not knowing if his brother was coming home, and he did not know that he would ever need to.

Not even a footnote to the beginning of his brother’s military training, Toby’s aspirations of Oxford had been relegated to a long-forgotten sticky-note; the glue gunked up with dust and pencil shavings, fallen to the back of the draw. It didn’t matter, he told himself; no one had ever cared for his fascination for analysis and stories, except his father and only in the sense that Lawrence delighted in informing him that it was a worthless pursuit, a waste of time, effort and money, though perhaps that in itself made it all the more perfect for his son he would say, reclined in the bar, scotch in hand. His mother had despaired, to a degree, when Toby had told her exactly which course he was looking at. He could have done complex physics, pure mathematics; when Freddie had enlisted, she’d said that if he cared so much for analysis, he could have been a codebreaker. Something useful, Lawrence had agreed, though with some scepticism.

Quietly and in private though, Priscilla had whispered that if it kept him away from the war, then any course he chose was good enough for her. Quietly and in private, Priscilla had purchased the books and tools Toby would need, after Lawrence had declared that he would not be funding such a worthless endeavour. Toby had blinked in shock, tripping over the pile of textbooks and novels in the dark, stacked neatly on the floor beside the novels he already intended to take with him, once he dug out the money he needed from his allowance, figured out everything he needed to make it all work. On the top, sliding from the pile, a book that had not been included; _When We Were Very Young._

The small book was old and battered now, childish and familiar enough that long after he should have outgrown a book designed for toddlers, he’d kept it – had it tucked in his suitcase for every school term, a reminder of better times, a friend he could keep in his pocket. He hadn’t touched it since he’d graduated high school.

 _Best of luck,_ the note tacked beside it read. _Love Mother,_ it continued.

Toby feared he’d never understand his mother. He tucked the note into his pocket – he told himself it was to ensure his father never saw it.

He thumbed idly through the old Milne book, the neat print of the poetry, the faded blue chicken scratch of a mystery annotator of years gone by, and the looping cursive handwriting that Toby had long since recognised as his mother’s, though he never did ask her about it. While the blue ink offered the kind of cheeky explanations for small children that didn’t yet understand how poems worked, the black cursive of Priscilla was dry humour and blunt replies to some of the more ridiculous additions of the blue, all accompanied by sticky jam stained fingerprints, and later, coffee splatters and cigarette ash. There had been many long and lonely days, when study and cigarettes just weren’t enough to distract from the buzzing in his head, the thrumming in his fingers. Freddie disappearing in a crowd across the quad as always, and Toby ducking out of the deputy’s line of sight before he got in trouble, again, for his crooked tie and claims of disrupting class, again, with too many well-intentioned questions. The pages of the old book had softened down so far that Toby frequently gave himself papercuts on the pages of others, never seeming to expect the crisp paper.

It seemed childish, it always seemed childish, but it seemed particularly off to take such a book to university, of all places. University felt like such an adult world; full of people who seemingly knew what they wanted to do with their lives – to Toby, it felt as if everyone else went there as a means to an end, rather than the desperate and simple need just to learn for learning’s sake. But the book held those last few memories of the country house before he’d been shipped off to boarding school, always to return to the hotel instead of home thereafter, until it became home instead. The comforting thrum of words, inked and printed had stood to testament of a childhood he couldn’t quite remember.

Toby bit his lip, glancing up at the door. There were already a great number of books he’d be taking with him; one more would not make much of a difference. It was ridiculous – Oxford likely held better copies than his in their libraries. But there were so few things he collected that didn’t claim his parent’s outright disdain, or Freddie’s confusion. And besides, _Toby_ wouldn’t complain about scribbling in his own novels. Unlike certain librarians he’s come across in school.

He buddied the book up with the Secret Garden at the edge of his suitcase; tucked close to the clasp, so he could reach for it should he need to, though Toby hardly expected to. Living on campus didn’t sound all that different from boarding, he didn’t expect to need to seek comfort any time soon. The textbooks ended up serving as weights to keep his clothes flat, rudimentary as it seemed. Truly, it wasn’t as if he needed to pack for the next few weeks, but the thrill of it all was on him and the suitcases were being packed _now._

Which meant he had very few clothes left to wear for the following fortnight, much to the chagrin of his mother.

The train ride was quiet; Toby stuck his head in a book, and suddenly it was as if the hours disappeared, half the book was read, and he could not recall a word, but Oxford was coming into view and that meant he had to get off in a minute, and that meant he had to track down his cases and figure out how to transport them and how to transport _himself_ and figure out where in Oxford he was actually going, and goodness but he really should have been paying attention because that thrumming anxiety in his stomach was starting to make him queasy.

All in all, it wasn’t as difficult as Toby had made it out to himself to be, and that evening he found himself in a single room on his college campus, overlooking the university grounds, the walls cold and bare, his suitcase and trunks unopened. He’d opted out of having a roommate under the guise of study; there were a great many things he theoretically enjoyed wasting his father’s money on, though few he actually followed through on. Never one to draw attention to himself on _purpose_ – though that did seem to happen all on its own at times – it felt needless to spend money left, right and centre the way even Freddie even managed to do so unthinkingly. Off the rack suits were more than just an excuse to mortify his parents. Truly, he just couldn’t stand the thought of potentially not getting along with someone enough that he’d rather just avoid the option altogether, and if it cost him slightly more money, well, it was hardly going to break the bank.

With classes not due to start for another week or so, and Toby finding himself with too much free time _again;_ where he ended up was hardly unexpected. Language and literature studies were hardly going to take him from his room unless it had to, but as much as Toby tended to avoid crowds and forced socialisation, being sequestered away in his room did get awfully _lonely._

Which was why he was now making a fool of himself in the library. Though in all likelihood, no one else had noticed. Hopefully.

He probably wasn’t making all that much of a fool of himself, technically speaking, though hiding behind shelves certainly _felt_ foolish. But it wasn’t as if he had much to fall back on – Freddie made navigating people look so simple, though he knew that his brother was, for the most part, numb to most and reactive to everyone else. Freddie probably had as many real friends as Toby did. Which was sad when he considered that actually, they shared Emma, so maybe they both had half a friend each. It was a morbid thought.

 _New_ wasn’t exactly a space that Toby enjoyed inhabiting on his own all that much though, and he couldn’t find a scrap of the cool and collected persona his brother put out, but seeing as he didn’t know the library – the layout, the people, the rules – it meant, that Toby had two choices. One being that he could fumble his way through, hope he didn’t cause a fuss and figure it out on his own; libraries couldn’t vary _that_ much, even one as big as this. _Or,_ he could ask for help.

And asking for _help,_ well wasn’t that a terrifying idea. But the layout of the building was enormous and deafeningly silent but for the rustle of paper from post-graduates working on who knew what, but apparently important enough to warrant studying before break was even over. The shelves lined the walls of the building, seeming to cradle the study space, but leaving the novels looking decorative and untouchable, and it left Toby feeling more than a little intimidated. And that was after walking past where soldiers were making themselves at home across the college campuses, Toby catching whispered complaints from returning students about the mess they’d been making in the dining halls since they’d moved in after the war was declared.

But the man behind the front desk looked approachable enough that it meant that Toby not only considered approaching him, but soon enough found his feet actually moving towards him, quite without his permission, pulse thrumming in his ears. He halted suddenly, students brushing past him and calling out to each other, the man looking up curiously, a friendly professional smile gracing his face, and Toby only wanted to hide.

The quiet elegance of the man was not lost on Toby; the fluid easy movement and easy small talk that Toby had never been able to find in his repertoire, though he couldn’t be sure of what it was about him that specifically caught Toby’s attention. He hung back just out of sight, watching the other students, watching how they interacted, how they spoke, and most importantly, where they walked after, smiles tossed carelessly over their shoulders. But mostly Toby’s gaze kept getting caught on the man behind the desk, and the only reason he wasn’t truly staring was his own anxiety.

 _“See you later Adil,”_ one student called. _“Thanks Joshi,”_ called another, rather conveniently, and Toby decided that actually, he didn’t need to make a fool of himself in front of Adil after all. 

He still managed to drop his things onto the table too loudly, blushing furiously when people sent curious glances his way, no one swamped with enough work to be irritated yet but the attention still felt bruising. As much as Toby tried to keep his head down, tried not to catch anyone’s eye, he couldn’t help the way he peered up through his fringe, already falling from the pomade, back over at the front desk, searching out one pair on eyes in particular quite in spite of himself.

Adil had stopped whatever it was that he had been doing, hands pausing mid-air, a stack of books lifted from the trolley as if he was heading towards the shelves. He looked around for the commotion for barely a moment, dark eyes settling on Toby. And Toby couldn’t be sure what it was about the way his eyes locked on Adil’s, the way Adil seemed to relax slightly when he realised, that gentle smile creeping back over his face, the barest hint of amusement on his lips. But Toby felt like his face was on fire, the adrenalin licking up his oesophagus and pooling in his stomach, through his veins until his hands shook badly enough that he feared he might drop his books again. It seemed being the centre of Adil’s attention, even for only a handful of seconds, was as wonderfully terrifying as he’d thought.

Toby forced himself to look away first, only peaking back over again after he’d sat down, an open book propped up between himself and the rest of the world. Adil had disappeared back between the shelves, and Toby did his best to ignore the disappointment settling lightly on his shoulders. It was a relief, he decided, to be invisible again.

Something in him, a small and teary boy, longed to reach out for the Milne book, borrow a little comfort for a minute before he returned to the world. But he’d left it in his room, not wanting to lose it, more importantly, not wanting anyone else to see it.

Instead, he reached for the book at the top of the pile, another children’s book, but apparently appreciated by enough stuffy old uppers that it had been relegated to a classic. _The Secret Garden_ wasn’t a particular favourite of Toby’s, truthfully he’d only read it twice before, one being a long time ago when it had still been considered out of his reading ability for his age; back when people had been impressed that he had read it on his own, the other a reread on the train up to Oxford yesterday. He had hardly remembered the story beyond a lonely girl and a garden, the refresher making thoughts twist through his mind, slowly enough that he could catch them, pin them down, possibly even write them down if he wanted to.

He’d thought… well he’d thought that maybe, well. _When We Were Very Young_ had been his constant through most of his life, the annotator had been his friend when the boys in his dorm had not, and he’d thought, and it sounded ridiculous enough, but he wanted to see. If maybe he could start over with another book, still a children’s book, but perhaps it might bring comfort to someone else. Perhaps a children’s story was that which no one would be expected to use for assignments and research papers, perhaps it would amuse someone when they found analysis within its pages. And if not then well, maybe he could know the book well enough that he remembered why people liked it so much to begin with.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture the person he’d write to, all the thoughts and theories, bits and pieces of analysis and dry humour, the way the person had scribbled through the pages of the Milne book, the way he imagined his mother might have done so, watching him as she must have as she wrote. But there was nothing there, nothing he could hold onto, and it was like the words got stuck, the same way they so often got caught in his throat.

Toby peered nervously over the top of his book back at where Adil was once again smiling that gentle smile, a handful of reassurances for the new students, a mix of civility and rolled eyes for those who were obviously returning. The way Adil interacted with people reminded him of Freddie, but there was something in his body language that made him look that much more at ease, a certain stubbornness in his spine that glared _I am meant to be here._ He seemed as much a part of the library as the books.

When he closed his eyes again, he pictured Adil, gentle smiles and soft snark, dark eyes bright with something Toby didn’t understand yet. He pulled his pen out from between his teeth, the end now with a slight groove that would sit comfortably in his mouth for the rest of semester. One last glance at the front desk, and Toby pressed the tip of the pen to the paper of his book, and started to write.

…

 _Just in case readers forget they are reading a children’s book,_ Toby thought dryly, penning in the thought as it came. _Allusions to; Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Sleeping Beauty, and Alice in Wonderland._

…

_I could have been like her, I think. Perhaps my parents paid their staff better than Mary’s. Perhaps I was more wanted than I thought. But I could have been like her. I think there may have been times when I was._

…

 _I think my mother would also choose a dinner party over avoiding cholera._ The comment spilled from him dripping in sarcasm, but on the page it looked dry and cruel. Toby still couldn’t quite bring himself to cross it out.

…

_Perhaps it is actually more contrary not to know you’re lonely. Though perhaps I’m being a hypocrite._

…

_Secrets; Mary herself, the entire existence of England – or perhaps actually, anywhere outside of India – the locked rooms of the manor, the secret garden itself…_

…

_And reality turns to fairy tale._

…

Whilst Toby managed to work through much of the first two and a half chapters that afternoon, it took him until nearly the end of the week before he reached the end again, class starting up at last and keeping him confined to lectures, tutorials, and his room. Though when Toby was finished with _The Secret Garden,_ he went back to the library. As he would have regardless, because he had work to do, and his room had already begun to feel as though it was choking him. Early weeks of the session hardly taking the opportunity to give the students breathing space as they adjusted, but it still felt to Toby as if he were sneaking into somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, a book that didn’t belong to this building smuggled in between several that were.

Whilst Toby was sure donations existed, there was, of course, the fear that, knowing what his surname implied, that donating a single, second-hand book would appear unbearably stingy. And as much as Toby would have liked to have directly given the book to Adil, there were some things that he was _absolutely_ sure would come off as too ridiculous to bear thinking about, and that was absolutely nothing to do with his anxiety. Someone would find the book, and hopefully, would appreciate his annotations. If that person wasn’t Adil, it didn’t matter.

Toby slipped _The Secret Garden_ into the return box, ensuring that it was hidden beneath at least two other novels, and turned and left before Adil even noticed he was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah... thoughts?


	3. The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde – November, 1939

Toby seemed, unsurprisingly really, to become a near-permanent fixture at the library as the term progressed. Satchel in hand, library door looming and open, his usual spot empty and waiting and Adil stood behind the front desk, just out of reach. The space uncharacteristically empty, the shelves seemingly fuller, Adil’s attention thrillingly uncaught.

It would be so easy to go speak to him. Toby had no idea what he would say.

He _did_ have books to return though, left-over from pre-readings and extra study he’d done over the break that he had only just finished with; an excuse to excuse himself from where his father lurked in the bar, his mother in the atrium, his brother almost entirely absent.

“Have they got the lit students reading horror now?” Adil called out to him as Toby came closer to the front, as though he’d somehow known he’d wanted to speak with him, Toby snapping his head back up so fast to look at him he felt he very nearly gave himself whiplash.

“Um. Well actually, it’s supposed to be a psychological commentary on good and evil,” Toby mumbled, wincing slightly but still somewhat relieved that he’d been able to hold back the ramble that was threatening to catch hold of his tongue. “It’s not supposed to be a horror story.”

“Not a fan of the films then?” Adil asked, faintly amused.

“Can’t say that I am,” Toby agreed, a small grin spilling across his face in spite of himself. “They did somewhat miss the point of the original. Though there were some parts that were clever in the remake.”

“I suppose it must have been entertaining,” Adil returned, smothering a laugh, watching Toby with just barely concealed delight. Toby felt his face heat up at the attention. “Though I can’t say I’ve seen it.”

“I feel like I should be saying that the book was _obviously_ better. Though it is a good story.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye out for it then,” Adil smiled, excusing himself apologetically when another student came up to the desk.

Toby watched him for a handful of moments before he slipped away between the shelves, still smiling despite himself and not particularly looking for anything. He wasn’t truly looking at the contents of said shelves, but nonetheless, he trailed his fingers across the spines, lost in thought until something far too familiar and far too unexpected jumped out at him. Toby, understandably enough he would have thought, had not expected to come across the Secret Garden again at all, but certainly not placed incorrectly amongst the non-fiction, wedged squarely in between the philosophy and religion sections. Frowning, Toby reached for it, flicking through the pages all at once, stopping only when something caught his eye, entirely by accident but enough to make him start again, from the beginning, this time slightly slower.

_Actually, I resent that the author decided the child was ugly just for being born in India._ There, just under his own annotations, an annotated reply, like it had been waiting for him. Toby thumbed the edge of the page with curiosity. _Just because the author points out that Mary is cruel to her staff because she was told she was superior, doesn’t mean the author didn’t pepper in her own bias and blatant racism throughout the book too,_ the mystery annotator continued.

Eyes wide, Toby marked the page with a finger, continuing to pour through the pages with building adrenalin. Each point and counterpoint the annotator made stuck in his mind, already racing with ideas. They were good points; the annotator was clearly intelligent, likely more understanding, less sheltered, than Toby himself, if perhaps not as educated. But placed incorrectly on a shelf, like it had been waiting for him, like the annotator had also wanted it to be found, whether by Toby or someone new, Toby couldn’t be sure what they had intended.

Toby had already started annotating _The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ since he’d donated the Secret Garden, had already made plans to donate other books after. The work itself had felt nearly therapeutic last time, being able to analyse and comment as he wished without thought to essay questions and creative prompts. Like he could get lost in it however it ended up happening, like he was getting all the tangents he might have out of the way before he got stuck into his actual work. The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was a story he had been slightly more familiar with this time around, though not so much that Toby had been unable to resist skimming through it without reabsorbing any information.

As Toby returned the Secret Garden directly to the same shelf, not wishing to draw any more attention to what he’d written there, he thumbed the spine of Jekyll and Hyde _._ It was significantly shorter than the Secret Garden, and the annotations had reached the end of the short story that much quicker, though Toby wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to part with it yet – especially since now it appeared that he was getting replies to his notes. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected; the whole point had been that someone would find the book. He just hadn’t thought that _he’d_ come across it again as well. He only hesitated for a moment longer before slipping through the shelves to the study areas, deciding that, perhaps, Dr Jekyll could do with a second do-over, a chance to catch his thoughts and put them back in order. With one last glance over his surroundings, Toby ducked out from between the shelves again, making his way over to his usual spot in the corner, Adil, as always, directly in his line of sight, flicking the book open as he sat down.

_‘…he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn’t specify the point.’_ Toby stared down at the line dully in spite of the way his mind raced, so fast it was nearly entirely blank, pen poised millimetres above the paper. He couldn’t work out why the line struck him in such a way, feeling himself slip into something of a morbid introspection, something inside him vying for acknowledgement even if he had no idea what it was. 

_Do you ever feel like there’s something wrong about you, but you don’t know what it is? No one can actually see it, but sometimes you just feel like you don’t make sense?_

Toby scrawled it across the page like a whisper, already hoping it would never be seen, already desperate that it would. Something in him pleaded for answers, but it was like he didn’t understand the question, something getting lost, repressed so far down he couldn’t see it at all. It might have caught him off guard, but the truth of it was that the only thing holding back his exhaustion on the matter was his inability to acknowledge there was a question at all.

_Secrets,_ Toby scribbled in the corner, _is it just because of what I was working on before? The door, the connection between Jekyll and Hyde, the letters, the inability to explain evil even when you picture it plainly._ Toby sighed. He didn’t even know what he was talking about.

_‘“He began to go wrong, wrong in the mind…”’_

_They aren’t opposites. Hyde might be a physical manifestation of evil, but Jekyll is only ever completely human; good and bad. There’s got to be a commentary about how no man can ever be entirely good, somewhere._

_‘The thing that was projected was Edward Hyde’, motivations or not, Hyde was the only result that was ever going to come of the experiment. He was inevitable._

Nearing the end of the book, Toby placed it down for a moment, giving himself a chance to stretch out from where he’d curled up awkwardly on the chair, his neck and shoulders cracking loudly, his right knee protesting unhappily at being straightened out from where he had twisted it underneath himself. Toby winced, settling himself back onto the chair in another, equally contorted, but now more comfortable position.

Almost completely by accident, he caught sight of Adil watching him from across the library, Adil ducking his head nervously when he realised he’d been caught. Toby blinked at him curiously, unsure why his heart was suddenly racing. Mentally shaking himself, Toby skimmed through the last of the final chapter, attempting to push thoughts of Adil from his mind.

_‘My devil had long been caged, he came out roaring.’ – nothing can be repressed forever,_ Toby wrote, fingers jittery but not knowing why.

Toby flipped through the last six or so pages after that, the ending already thoroughly annotated. A quick glance up towards the front told him Adil was comfortably occupied with his own work once more, and with people beginning to filter in properly, Toby felt no more reason to stay. Having felt he’d practically bled the book dry of anything more interesting than his own introspection – something about it Toby still didn’t want to look at – Toby collected his things once again and made to deposit the book alongside his other returns as he had before. But a sudden burst of inspiration had him ducking back between the shelves again; replacing the Secret Garden with the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, the former once again put into the returns, and hopefully, to the appropriate shelf.

…

Toby went looking for the book each time he went back to the library, to check it was still there, to check that it wasn’t. He knew, logically, that he had to give the annotator time to _find_ the book, let alone to actually read it, actually annotate it, and that was only if they actually _intended_ to look for it.

The day Jekyll and Hyde disappeared from the spot on the shelf, Toby was near giddy with anticipation. It never occurred to him that, perhaps, there was any other reason the book might have disappeared from the shelf – someone else may have found it, Adil or another of the staff may have re-shelved it. there were any number of reasons it might have disappeared, and yet, Toby found himself entirely confident that the annotator would find it. After all, the incorrect shelving had been their idea.

It took nearly three days before Toby found it on the shelf again, in the same spot, tucked between the non-fiction and textbooks, a secret pigeon hole. Heart in his throat, Toby didn’t even bother checking his surroundings before he zeroed in on it, reaching out and tugging it gently from where it was cradled. There was a new ink stain on the title page, smudged as though someone had desperately tried to remove it without thinking; Toby imagined there must be someone on campus with black pen ink smeared across their hand and up some of their forearm, splattered up their sleeve. Though, truthfully, that would be the case of many of the students, though perhaps not to that extent. Toby himself had permanent ink stains around his cuticles, often left soot coloured fingerprints on his work. But it was comforting to think, that if he tried, he might have been able to find them, if he wanted to. He leant back against the shelf, slouched back against book spines, like they might have held him up better than his own, and flicked past to the first page.

_“…and yet still lovable.”_ The annotator had underlined, the thickly lined ink forcing Toby’s attention as early as the first page. Toby bit into his lip, trying vainly to stop his face from softening. He couldn’t quite tell if the annotator’s implied note was a passive-aggressive directive at him or themself, but he couldn’t help feeling fond regardless.

_Not Treasure Island? And here I thought you liked children’s books,_ the annotator teased just above the chapter title. Or at least, Toby hoped they were teasing.

_I do have to work on my degree at some point,_ Toby wrote back idly, having pulled a cheap and cracked graphite pencil from his pocket, hardly paying attention and not really thinking about what he was doing. It never occurred to him that the mystery annotator who’d asked in the first place might never see his reply regardless.

The handwriting, on ever-eager inspection, looked perfectly similar to that in The Secret Garden. That identical way the writer printed their letters in clear rounded script. Like it was meant to be read with ease. Relief flooded through him at being able to doubly confirm that it was in fact, the same person, his annotator, once again. He slouched further into himself, smiling without realising it, simply relieved at the consistency.

_Are you saying you have a secret Mr Hyde in you too?_ Toby read, as he wandered back over to the study area. He was sure this time that the annotator was teasing him, and he felt his shoulders relax as he read the reply, directly below his own ramble about secrets. _Maybe I did. But I’ve long since come to terms with who and what I am. Though the point of the story is that everyone has a potential Hyde. People being composites, after all._

Toby traced the first part with a finger, smudging graphite accidentally over the words as he slid into his usual seat, nose very much buried in the book. The reply to Toby’s quite panic left him with more questions. It was just past a reassurance, slightly too cryptic to not beg questions but final enough that he couldn’t bring himself to pry. His own previous writing, _do you ever feel like you don’t make sense,_ had been smudged as though it too had been traced over by someone lost in thought, as though the annotator had put actual thought into it before they had offered him their reply. Something about the thought made it somewhat more comforting than it might have otherwise.

He didn’t look up from the book as Toby made his way over to the tables, dropping his satchel beside the chair, still reading.

…

Toby shut the book with a panicked snap. He didn’t know what had caused him to look up; Toby had thought he’d been far too engrossed in the annotator’s notes. But usually, when he did so, finding himself needing to rest for a second, little more than a flick of his eyes over the top of a novel, usually, he’d catch a glance of Adil talking to other students, offering advice or recommendation, piles of half sorted books surrounding him. He didn’t expect to see Adil staring back.

Or, well, not back, in the direct sense that he was looking at _Toby,_ but in the sense that he was staring intently at the cover of his book, an overly complicated look upon his face that Toby thought may have been something like horror.

Which was ridiculous. Adil already knew that Toby was reading Jekyll and Hyde. It was probably the only decent interaction the two of them would ever have.

Thoroughly unsettled, Toby tucked the book away, pulling his essay and several untouched sources towards him from where he’d discarded them haphazardly on the table and left them to be forgotten, apparently far too long ago. Staring down at the mess of an essay plan Toby had scribbled out the night before, Toby picked up his pen and attempted to write.

…

_‘I stood already committed to a profound duplicity of life.’_ Toby stared at the quote, sat at his own desk back in his room, the back of his mind thrumming, the annotator once again highlighting with thick black underline. _Perhaps you were onto something with the secrets. There will always be people forced to hide parts of themselves, regardless of whether or not it is (or is considered) evil, like Hyde._

Towards the end though, the annotator almost seemed to be begging a summary of it all. _You write of repression, what of temptation? Jekyll likens Hyde to an addiction, himself to a drunkard. He cannot give him up, even when he says he wants to (did he ever really want to?)_

The annotator’s handwriting had begun to slope, the words cramming together, the letters slipping together as though they had been written awfully quickly, as though the annotator hadn’t wanted them to be entirely legible, as though the annotator had forced themselves to write it before they lost their nerve.

…

“Mr Hamilton?”

It was late, that much Toby was aware of as he blinked awake, table a mess of open books and open notes.

Adil had discarded his jacket at some point during his shift, sleeves rolled up and bearing ink stains from a day’s worth of work. Dark circles smudged under his eyes, widened as though expecting Toby to startle at his approach. Toby supposed, he had hardly given him reason not to expect as such.

“I’m sorry, I left you as long as I could,” Adil murmured sympathetically, moving to the empty seat beside him and suppressing a yawn that Toby couldn’t help but mimic, though with significantly less successful suppression of his own.

“What time is it?”

“Not quite midnight, Mr Hamilton.”

“Toby,” he corrected, trying not to groan when he realised how long he must have been asleep, in the middle of the library, where everyone could see him. It was nightmarish enough that he was nearly glad that the mortification of being unconscious in a large room meant he could not recall it even if he wanted to.

“Toby,” Adil repeated, Toby offering him a small, pleased smile as he did so. “Do you need help with…” he gestured towards Toby’s spread out belongings. “Anything?”

“No, no, I ah, I can manage.”

“I assume I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Adil smiled, pulling himself up. “Goodnight, Mr Hamilton.”

Toby blinked, watching him leave. “ _Toby,_ ” he corrected, calling out to Adil’s turned back.

Toby sighed, reaching to gather his things together again, making sure that he still had Dr Jekyll with him, discarded accidentally just out of reach on his desk. He frowned as he pulled it towards him, trying to work out how it had gotten there in the first place.

Realising what was different, Toby whipped his head around, frantically looking for anyone else still in the library, trying desperately to remember who had been sitting closest, who had walked past, could have walked past, at any point while he’d been asleep.

Because there, tucked between the dust jacket and the cover, was a scrap of paper, haphazardly torn from a notebook as though it had been done so on impulse, the annotator’s handwriting just barely visible.

_Have you ever read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight?_ The annotator asked, Toby’s fingers tracing the neatly printed handwriting like it held all the answers, if only his mind could hold still for a moment long enough for him to decipher them. Unlike Toby’s own notes, a scrawling chicken scratch with half the conjunctives missing, the mystery writer’s handwriting was usually clear, written in neatly rounded print letters rather than cursive, as if they were used to ensuring that other people needed to read their writing. It reminded Toby of school teachers and blackboards. _I have a feeling you might enjoy it._

Whilst Toby had heard of, in passing mostly, of various King Arthur stories, there were very few he had actually read. His father had an apparently little touched copy of Sir Thomas Malory’s _Tales of King Arthur_ in his library that Toby had never really more than skimmed through, but he knew The Green Knight wasn’t in it. Truly, he’d never considered that he might want to come across it. But there was something about the earnestness of the annotator’s replies that made Toby want to indulge them. With one last desperate look across the now empty library, Toby packed his things back into his satchel and left.

…

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was decidedly _not_ available at the college library. And Toby was absolutely certain of that. Pouring through every single shelf – and he had, truly, even the ones where such a volume had no right to be sat, the annotator’s history of leaving books in strange and blatantly incorrect places causing Toby to think, or hope, that perhaps they had left it for him somewhere.

It had been a desperate plan, a spur of the moment decision really, to duck into the Bodleian library as he was leaving for home. And in doing so, it left Toby in hurry for the train, even as he dreaded the journey.

Running into Adil, again, as he’d gone to return the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde to the college library, would have been awkward anyway, Toby imagined, the light of day, or really, a painful over analysis of their midnight conversation, making Toby dread seeing Adil again, even as he hoped he would. The anxiety of it all had him fighting to get the words he wanted out of his throat, a painfully awkward conversation that Toby imagined had Adil considering their others a series of curious outliers. Toby’s desperation must have been clear on his face, his need to leave for the train translating into the perception that he was nothing more than an awkward, clumsy man, who did not want to talk to anyone, let alone Adil; excruciatingly far from the truth.

But with _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ tucked in his pocket, he could hardly bring himself to care; one last note scrawled in the back of _Dr Jekyll_ before he’d tucked it in with the returns _;_

_No I haven’t, I’ll have to read it over the holidays._


	4. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight – January, 1940

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> massive massive thank you to [goingaftercacciato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingaftercacciato/pseuds/goingaftercacciato) for letting me read their notes on the green knight, I *definitely* didn't do them justice, but I hope you enjoy the chapter anyway!

Toby had missed the way Adil’s eyes had widened when he’d run into him in the library, a small thrill and bigger terror scrawled across his irises when he’d caught sight of the poem Toby was clinging to. Too caught up in the way his voice got caught in his throat, his hands shaking badly enough that the cover of the Green Knight had landed heavily on the desk in front of them both, startling the admittedly very few people around them, the library otherwise near silent. Adil had signed out several other novels for him, his own hands trying not to betray a slight tremor, the tightness of his smile causing Toby’s stomach to clench with anxiety that had followed him for the entire journey back to London.

That anxiety returned tenfold when he returned to Oxford in mid-January, catching sight of Adil across the entrance of the library. Toby felt his face go bright red as he watched Adil, talking to each of the students and staff who came up to him, a stack of books or questions or both in tow. The handful of weeks he’d been away doing nothing to forget that last conversation, if it could have been called that, nor the others that had caused his pulse to jump for no discernible reason. But somehow something about it had become _worse,_ something in his pulse ticking up and up, adrenalin licking through him with something just left of anxiety, something more akin to anticipation. 

Wound up as he was, Toby was already anticipating the moment Adil would look up – the second he was done signing the pass, the moment the student walked away and Adil’s smile dropped back down to neutral – and as he saw Adil’s posture change, he ducked out the door again, leaning back against the wall, hoping he hadn’t been spotted even as he desperately wanted to speak to him. It was ridiculous. As he peered back around the doorframe, watching the frown crease the space between Adil’s eyebrows, Toby’s heart picked up its pace again. He didn’t understand what it was that made him so terrified of seeing Adil right then, what had changed over the break, but until he figured it out, he wasn’t going to go inside. There were libraries at each of the colleges, and the Bodleian as well if he was desperate enough to walk that far – it wasn’t as if his studies would be at a loss if he didn’t enter the one on his own campus ever again.

Except-

His connection to the annotator near entirely depended on him returning to the library, to drop off the books, to pick them up again. No matter his feelings on the matter in regards to Adil, whatever the _hell_ was going on there, Toby couldn’t bear to give that up. He couldn’t afford to lose his annotator.

There had to be times when Adil wasn’t there, there had to be days that he didn’t work, surely there had to be one day he didn’t work. However closely he thought he’d been paying attention to him – and Toby was reluctant to admit it had been rather a lot more than he’d thought – he hadn’t memorised what days he was and wasn’t in the library, to his relief, to his frustration.

Toby hadn’t been game to write in the library’s copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, though he had read, then reread more than once. Instead, he’d written each of his notes down in a notebook, tearing off the pages in sections, pressing them down into the joins of the pages until they just about stuck, mind thrumming and hands shaking even as his thoughts moved faster than his hand could move. As much as Toby could hope, he had to admit the chances of the annotator being able to read shorthand were not as high as he was willing to risk. Though careful transcription of his own annotations had him throwing more than half of them in the rubbish bin, thoroughly embarrassed and unwilling to draw indefinite attention to the sections that had him the most caught.

Retreating back to his room, Toby collapsed back at his desk, the cheap wood nicked with indentations from where he’d pressed his pen too harshly into paper, the lacquer scratched and chipped by his carelessness and overuse. The chair could not be described as being in better shape.

The room itself, though no bigger than his room at the hotel, somehow managed to be unbearably cluttered and completely bare of anything more personal than Toby’s school work. He had to push a great deal many things off the desk, placing them in new neat towers beside him, to make room for his notes and the Green Knight himself.

Without the movement and rustle of the library, Toby soon became so lost in thought, his pen hardly lifting from the page even if it didn’t move whilst he read, that he had nothing besides the clock on his wall to inform him of the passing time, and he was hardly wont to look up from the poem. The persistent _tick-tock_ was little more than white noise in the background, the minute and hour hands maliciously silent as they ticked over into the small hours of the morning without warning, Toby still hunched over his desk, unaware that he was already half asleep.

_Ongoing motif of games… juxtaposed against commentary about chivalry perhaps?_

_He only kissed the knight because he was required to though. Chivalry and deals and all that,_ Toby argued half-heartedly, fighting down something like a numbed panic from taking root in his stomach. He was unclear, at that moment, who exactly he was arguing with, or, more importantly, perhaps, what it was he was asking the annotator of in reply.

As many times as Toby read and reread lines, and later he would likely blame it on the late hour, he found himself with more questions than ideas, though they were the sort that he couldn’t find the words he needed to write them down. He could only hope that the annotator, having evidently read the poem before, would have enough opinions to shoulder the load this time.

The only reason Toby managed to wake up on time, barely, was the fact that he hadn’t remembered to close the blackout curtains. Winter-white sunlight filtered in through the glass, splashing bright fingers over where Toby had fallen asleep in the desk. Swearing extensively, Toby scrambled to gather his things before stumbling out the door, hoping that no one would ask after his loose hair or crumpled clothes. It was a strange paradox to when Adil had woken him in the library for much the same reason last term, Toby feeling his face heat up at the memory in spite of himself.

He told himself he didn’t have the time to swing through the library first. In the end, there was ample enough time to duck in for a handful of seconds to deposit the Green Knight on the usual shelf in the non-fiction section. He nearly even made it to class on time, and he certainly wasn’t the most ruffled looking when he sat down, nor was he the last to arrive. The student body was nothing if not predictable.

…

As it turned out, avoiding the library simply meant that Toby now felt like he was seeing Adil in all the places he wasn’t supposed to, all the places on campus where Toby thought, perhaps, he’d be content in obliviousness.

He’d see him in the corridors and across the quads, just far enough away most of the time that Toby could turn around or pretend he hadn’t seen him. But it pained him to keep avoiding him, not even knowing why he felt the need to. Adil hadn’t done anything to warrant such an effort, though Toby told himself it wasn’t likely that Adil would even notice his absence. As much as he had frequented the library before the race of his pulse made him too nervous to go, so did just about every other student in the college. And, he thought depressingly, watching Adil smile at another student in greeting from the other end of the corridor, it wasn’t as if he was particularly memorable.

He lasted just over a week, before he cracked. He missed the annotator more than he was ready to admit – a considerable amount when taken into account that Toby more than readily accepted that he cared a great deal for the mystery person. It was strange, how in the span of a few weeks – though truthfully, it had been a significantly shorter amount of time in hindsight – that the neat print handwriting had become such a fixture, an emotional connection, in Toby’s life. A stranger with a pen who had an uncanny ability to make him think _._

The library was crowded, even by the usual standards at that time of day, students with morning classes moving to switch seats with those being taught in the afternoon. Toby ducked his head as he entered, tucking his nose against the stack of books cradled in his arms, stubbornly refusing himself the opportunity to look up and see if Adil was working, intent only on checking the shelf for the Green Knight, and probably leaving right after. Only possibly may be allowing himself to sit, but not so he could watch the front desk. He had several assignments that needed working on, and his room was cloyingly silent but for the clock and it made Toby feel as though he was drowning. He would stay for _actual_ study, and nothing more at all.

So stubborn was he in not looking where he was going, Toby ran headlong into someone almost as soon as he slipped between the shelves, muscle memory doing nothing to assist him with moving obstacles.

“I- I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking, I’m sorry, oh God-” Toby rambled, already falling to the floor, reaching haphazardly for his things, face burning.

“To- Mr Hamilton!” a familiar voice exclaimed in shock, cutting him off.

Toby whipped his head up from where he was scrambling for his things, scattered across the floor, a pair of brown hands touching his for barely a second before the owner yanked them back in surprise, the contact burning.

“You’re back,” he said, quieter this time, as if Adil hadn’t meant to say them out loud. He sat crouched in front of where Toby was kneeling, eyes wide like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“I, um. Yes.”

Adil smiled at him, rubbing at a spot on his head where Toby had cracked his own against his, suppressing a wince. “Let me help?” he asked, gesturing to the scattered pile of books.

Toby carefully slid the Green Knight out of sight, tucking it behind another book and pulling it against his chest. He nodded at Adil, not quite sure he’d be able to get the words out of his throat. Regardless of his personal context on the situation, Toby was awfully out of practice with people.

Adil however, didn’t seem to take issue with Toby’s near-silence following his ramble, seemingly content just to help him, perhaps even to have an excuse to be near him at all. _You’re back,_ he’d said, like he’d noticed, maybe even like he’d been looking for him in the library. It made Toby’s pulse thump something awful, made him scramble faster for his things, if only because he couldn’t stand being so close. But something about Adil’s quiet confidence, the way he calmly went about helping Toby collect the mound of novels and notes seemed nearly to have the opposite effect, like if he stayed long enough Toby might learn how to ground himself.

All too quickly and not even remotely fast enough it seemed, Adil was handing him back the last of the books, polite smile firmly back in place and standing as a stark contrast to the softer surprised look from before. He ducked his head as he left, and Toby couldn’t help but turn as he went, eyes tracking Adil all the way back to the front desk. Toby released a breath, slow and slightly unsteady as he watched Adil settle back into whatever it was he had been working on before Toby had knocked him over.

Toby traced a thumb idly up and down the spines of the books he was holding, making poor attempts at casting Adil out of his mind. At long last, Toby finally managed to reach for the spot on the shelf, but stopped short, both book and hand hovering in mid-air. Pressed between the books was a slip of notepaper. Or perhaps notepaper wasn’t exactly right. Tugging it gently, not yet unfolding it, Toby realised the paper was slightly thicker than the paper bound within notebooks usually was, the grain of it more pronounced, unlined and off white, nearly cream, the sort of paper that a person might use for watercolours. Like it had been torn from a sketchbook.

But instead of a drawing, or whatever it was that Toby had assumed must be contained on such paper, instead there was the familiar handwriting of the annotator. Not quite prose, in fact, on closer inspection it looked almost like poetry, if not in structure, then certainly in the way the words seemed to flow together. Like it was painting a single picture, textured and painstakingly detailed, rather than a story, a slice of a second, a static moment in time that the annotator hadn’t been able to allow to escape.

It wasn’t addressed to anyone; it wasn’t signed either. The only clue was the location in which the poem had found its temporary home, and that familiar and comforting handwriting. Toby chewed viciously at his lip, feeling the already chapped skin split under the assault as he read, then reread the poem again.

Not a single line of it seemed to have a literal meaning, but for the apparent yearning it seemed to stir in his chest as he read it, again. With one last pause, another cursory glance over his shoulder as he traced the words with his index finger, Toby refolded the page and tucked it carefully in his jacket pocket alongside his lighter and cigarette case, feeling only slightly guilty. Like he was stealing, though he couldn’t imagine why else the poem would be left there, if not to be found by him, logically, though doubt made grand attempts at proving otherwise. He replaced the paper with the Green Knight, trying to summon something along the lines of amusement at having replaced a poem with a poem, if only because he thought the annotator might have appreciated the joke.

…

The first line his annotator left for him wasn’t an answer to anything Toby had written, was little more than a dry remark about the edition he had chosen. Toby couldn’t help rolling his eyes as he read it, though he smiled as he pulled out his pen to answer.

 _I may well have found the original somewhere in the Bodleian, but I sincerely doubt I’d have the ability to read it,_ Toby wrote with dry amusement. _The Tolkien edition more than suffices, considering you didn’t actually specify any one version…_

Toby skimmed over his own notes as he looked for where the annotator had written there’s below and between Toby’s, certain details Toby had written late in the evening and early morning having become hazy with sleep and time. He only stopped himself from reading in detail when he found himself critiquing his syntax. As if he’d been putting thought into that when he’d been writing; if his last argument had been verbal, rather than written, it would have been mumbled. Not that it seemed to have stopped the annotator from replying.

_Okay, but consider; the knight is the one who made his wife kiss Gawain, knowing that Gawain would then have to kiss him in the morning. What of his motivations? And compare that to earlier references to kisses; do those count as seduction in hindsight?_

Toby sighed in relief; at the very least he could always count on the annotator to pick his brain. He turned to walk over to his usual spot again, the chair empty and waiting, as usual, nose still buried in the volume before he snapped it shut with a wince. He’d already run into one person this morning; Toby hardly felt the need to repeat the experience so soon.

Arranging his belongings in such a way that Toby nearly felt like he’d built something reminiscent of a wall between himself and the rest of the library; novels and essay readings stacked in messy piles, his satchel creating a dip in the battlement, unconsciously allowing Toby to glance over everything to the front desk without straining his neck. He pulled his pen and the notebook full of thinning blank pages he’d already been using, a response already itching the ends of his fingers.

_It still isn’t exactly approving. The green knight is fae. The poet’s still saying it’s unnatural. Impossible, even. The exchange between Bertalik and Gawain is never explained because they are not allowed to mean anything at all._

_Which feeds into themes of rational vs irrational, which of course is at least part-_

Toby was forced to cut his thoughts off early, his pen sliding entirely off the page and leaving indents and ink on the bare wood of the table, the scrap of paper clearly not sufficient in holding space for what was fast becoming a ramble and a half pouring out of him. Before he lost his train of thought, still wanting to work out what he meant, Toby haphazardly tore the first blank page from whichever notebook happened to be in reach first and continued without pause, pen hardly leaving the paper.

_-of the basis of the poet’s chivalry criticisms, so I suppose they feed off each other, and that the original poet likely didn’t recognise his hypocrisy, though it might be more related to the translation._

_Appearances over truth as the basis of chivalry, accidental or deliberate… sounds awfully familiar. My father would hate it if I told him so._ Toby paused, chewing the end of his pen as he stared down at the page. _Actually, appearances over reality, or intention maybe. Not just in relation to chivalry, but every interaction that occurs throughout the poem._

Toby blinked down at the page, pen raised millimetres from the desk. As fast as he’d managed to write, Toby was sure he’d managed to skip over letters – usually the first in a word, especially the long ones – and entire conjunctives in an effort to keep up with his brain. His pen had hardly lifted from the page at all as he’d written, leaving the letters just barely legible. Toby grimaced, hoping that the annotator would be able to read it, though not game enough to rewrite it again. At least, he reassured himself, it wasn’t written in shorthand. Steeling himself, Toby tucked the note between the pages and returned the poem to the shelf, already burning for a reply. 

…

_Apologies for not suggesting an edition, I don’t remember the one that I read. It was a very long time ago. I don’t think it was this one though, not that it really matters. This one sounds more intellectual than my teenage self would have tolerated._

_It’s regressed to commentary on gender roles actually, see how Gawain takes on the role of the queen? Not much has changed in that sense; we can thank Mr Feud, amongst others, for that continuation. Though are you really looking for approval from a poet that died over five hundred years ago?_ The annotator replied, somewhat cryptically.

Whatever the hell _that_ was supposed to mean. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d thought he’d wait two days to read, though he did see the annotator’s point. But he had a sneaking suspicion that, well. That he was getting rather defensive about it all.

 _What makes a man then?_ The annotator wrote, handwriting momentarily sloping and sloppy, as if the note had been written late into the night. Toby imagined them curled up under quilts, propped up on their side to catch the light of a lamp, pen slipping quietly across the page.

 _Or rather,_ they continued, _what makes a good one?_

Toby sighed, leaning back in his chair and allowing the book to fall shut. He was sure the annotator enjoyed being cryptic on purpose, took a particular delight in picking his brain even when they didn’t get the opportunity to see the results past whatever Toby wrote in reply below.

He pulled out the poem the annotator had left him again from where Toby now kept it tucked in his cigarette case. The paper was now softened from constant handling, though the ink had held on to its shape remarkably well all things considered. The words themselves, scrawled neatly as ever, with perhaps just slightly more of a flourish than usual, as though the annotator had subconsciously embellished their handwriting as they’d been thinking. Though, steeped as it was in metaphorical language, Toby could barley be sure what the annotator had intended at all. Which, as he thought about it, smiling unconsciously down at the poem, was rather consistent of them.

_Are you going to tell me which book you’ll leave for me next?_

Toby grinned at the last message, slipped carefully between the cover and the last page of the book.

 _No, you’ll have to wait and see,_ he wrote, and left it at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and look at that, we're halfway kiddos!


	5. The Scarlet Pimpernel – February, 1940

Having returned Sir Gawain and the Green Knight to the library, Toby did not see the poem again. The volume disappeared from the shelf quickly enough that Toby assumed the annotator must have found it – he could only hope that they had kept it for themselves. Or, he thought, slightly sheepish, they had retrieved their collectives notes from the volume and returned it to the Bodleian.

Checking the shelf as much as he did so, as well as trying to think of what to annotate next – a novel, he figured, just for the sake of change – Toby essentially gave up on trying to avoid Adil. Avoiding him was, as he’d already surmised, a fruitless endeavour that simply resulted in Toby looking for Adil across campus, making him near hyperaware of his presence in the library, a direct contradiction to his intentions and overall making Toby more anxious about it all. That said, it seemed at times that stealing glances at Adil had become near second nature, Toby could not pinpoint specifically when he had started. What piqued Toby’s curiosity though, was the number of times he’d peek over a book cover and find Adil looking back, eyes widening for barely a second before he looked away, leaving Toby pink-cheeked and confused. It made him want to speak to him and hide from him in equal measure, but having already decided that hiding didn’t work, well…

Adil grinned at his approach, setting piles of half sorted books down on the desk in front of him. “You know, considering I don’t actually attend any of the classes, it shouldn’t it be odd that I seem to see you multiple times a day?”

Toby felt the blush rising on his cheeks and stubbornly tried to hold it back. “I have a lot to study for,” he mumbled, staring down at Adil’s hands, unable to meet his eye. “It’s not my fault you work every day except Wednesdays.”

“You noticed that?” Adil raised an eyebrow, something hopeful flicking over his face, perhaps something else along with it.

“I… oh!” Toby cut himself off, noticing another student making his way over to the desk, panic having not made Toby stupid enough to miss an opportunity like that. “Sorry, I’d better go.” He tried not to make his relief obvious, accidentally letting disappointment slip out in its place.

Returning the library’s books left Toby with nothing more to do, something that Toby wasn’t used to feeling in the library. He stood awkwardly for a moment, still watching Adil, not sure what to do with himself. Feeling slightly foolish, Toby ducked his head to leave, stumbling when Adil caught his eye, offering him a tiny wave and an even smaller smile before returning to his work.

The weak fluttering in the pit of his stomach followed Toby all the way back to his room. It was an almost bizarre feeling, this lull in work, the quiet pining for Adil’s attention.

As much as he was sure he could _find_ school work to do, Toby had thought, at the beginning of the week at least, that it might be nice to take a break, just this one week. Hands itching for a pen or a cigarette, he wasn’t fussy which, Toby couldn’t help but think that perhaps he’d been mistaking in that thinking; he hadn’t counted on the fact that he hadn’t decided on a book for the annotator yet. Starting an assignment early might just be needlessly stressful, it might even be needlessly stress- _relieving,_ but Toby was sure he hardly needed another excuse to be in the library when he didn’t need to be. The lack of urgency was surely going to result in little more than Toby rereading the same lines of his sources over and over, and staring at Adil when his mind blanked, which it always seemed to do when he caught sight of the man.

How he managed to maintain the clutter on his desk when he didn’t have current projects was a mystery to Toby. Old notes clung in haphazard clumps from where Toby had thrown them together, out of the way, too messy to be described as _piles_ as such, and hardly organised though Toby would swear up and down he knew where everything was. He might even have been able to prove that sentiment, had someone actually asked him to.

The draws of the desk however, were a surprisingly organised set, reserved for notebooks specific to assignments, and personal possessions he didn’t want to lose. There was a backlog of letters, unread and bound in the top draw of his desk, tucked out of the way so he wouldn’t lose or damage them. No more than a dozen or so, one or two from his mother, perhaps the same from his brother, though Freddie’s envelopes were heavier and thicker and occasionally containing blacked-out lines from the censorship men, though mostly contained far more information on planes, and pilots, that Toby had ever thought he’d care to know. Toby never considered that his father might write to him, and his father never entertained the thought either, and they were both happier for it. The remainder of the letters were from Emma.

_Dad promoted me to receptionist, with your father’s permission of course. It’s exciting to be out the front instead of tucked away on room service, though I will still be attending to that as well, in the evenings when check-in is closed._

_There was this one guest the other day, you’ll never believe me-_

Toby skimmed through the letter, grinning to himself at Emma’s excitement and the evident effort she’d gone to in order to find something interesting to write to him about just for the sake of writing to him. He felt slightly guilting at having left it so long.

_I miss you both terribly. As full as the hotel is, it’s never the same when the two of you away, and I’d rather gotten used to having you around Toby, after Freddie went off to train. No one else will let me talk them into doing anything fun except Betsey. And everyone keeps expecting me to be responsible now. I’m getting used to it, but sometimes I miss inventing the lives of the more ridiculous looking guests, like we used to when we were little._

_Looking forward to seeing you at the end of term (shall I meet you at the station again this time?)_

_Love always,_

_Emma_

Setting the letter aside so he could reply to it later, Toby flicked through the remainder in the pile, looking for a specific letter from Emma, from a specific date; a reply to something he’d asked her over a month ago, not expecting that he’d actually find himself so desperately in need of it.

_Toby,_

_I can’t imagine that you’ve already managed to read everything in all the libraries in Oxford, but if it’s recommendations you’re looking for, try something written by a woman that’s not a children’s book. It shouldn’t be a challenge to find something, but seeing as Oxford is ridiculously masculine, it might take up enough of your time that you don’t pass out from boredom. You could always try the Scarlet Pimpernel – they’ve based a few movies on that book now. Do you remember when my father got ahold of a copy of the Mark of Zorro when we were ten? ~~It scared you badly enough that you cried~~ I feel like you might enjoy the premise more now we’re older. Apparently, there’s a remake of the same name coming out this year, you can critique it for accuracy for me and Freddie when you both come home. It would be good to see a version that isn’t silent, wouldn’t it?_

_Love Emma_

Consciously choosing to ignore her teasing, though Toby couldn’t help but roll his eyes fondly regardless, tracing the lines of the title she’d suggested. He’d heard of it, in passing, mostly in relation to _Zorro,_ and certain more recent comics printed in America. Distantly, he could recall his mother mentioning the stage play, though that had mostly been drenched in her own criticism and Toby’s eventual realisation that she hadn’t actually seen it anyway.

Toby stared at his piles of novels, littering the floor where they didn’t fit in the admittedly _tiny_ bookshelf that someone had stuffed in the corner as an afterthought. He could just use his own books. Yes, he’d read them all, and yes, most of them where the ridiculously dry and crumbly narration of old men who Toby had to read for class, or that he’d picked up simply out of curiosity born from people’s claims of the wonders of classic literature. The remainder were the sappy wet stories that Toby was slightly too embarrassed to subject his annotator to. Yes, he could use one of his own books again, but as he glanced back down at Emma’s letter, Toby thought she rather had a point. It might take him enough time to find that it would prevent him from passing out from boredom. At any rate, it couldn’t possibly be more difficult to find than the Green Knight.

…

He did find the Scarlet Pimpernel, eventually. Toby had very nearly given in and asked Adil for help when he’d spotted the book, fallen behind the shelf, caught between the shelf itself and the wall and trapped in the gap between them. The pages were beginning to yellow and they stuck together in places like they hadn’t been opened in some time, though as Toby began reading the first chapter, he couldn’t begin to understand why.

Toby chewed the inside of his cheek as he went to sit down, mentally scrambling for a pen but outwardly hesitating. The book clearly wasn’t particularly well-loved by the student body, but it _was_ still a library book. Technically, he _shouldn’t_ write directly onto the pages. But, as Toby traced the edge of the page with his thumb, there was every chance that no one besides himself and the annotator would ever even see it. Decision made, Toby finally reached for his pen, the cap falling off in his rush, clattering against the table in harmony with the way his hands shook. There was something about it all that had an air of illegality; Toby imagined Emma and Freddie would tease him mercilessly for thinking so. That thought alone was enough to calm his nerves, and with one last look around himself, Toby started writing.

 _Satire –_ right off the bat; the opening chapter hardly held back, and Toby found himself unable to allow himself the time to elaborate as he continued reading. He could only hope that the annotator would know what he meant; if not, he’d explain later.

_‘men, women, children…’ – repeated several times, more or less, and it’s only the third page. Emphasis…_

_Personifying the guillotine, whilst dehumanising the crowds – they become equally murderous…_

As he read through the first chapter, Toby felt his pulse picking up, his mind wandering to thoughts of the annotator, even as he remained gripped by the story. Already, Toby wanted to place the book on the shelf, leave something for the annotator to find. Something about the anticipation, the waiting for the annotator to find his thoughts and analysis, something about the anticipation, the waiting for himself to write his thoughts and analysis.

The thrumming butterflies in his stomach, the sort of reaction Toby could only attribute to a very, _very,_ small handful of people in his entire life, though he staunchly refused to acknowledge _who._ If the annotator were to be a man, he’d be terrified. If they were to be a woman, Toby couldn’t manage to summon any strong feelings on the matter, though each time he tried to picture it, attribute those feelings, as Freddie would have described as a _crush,_ to a feminine annotator, Toby felt himself shying away, wanting to avoid the books altogether, finding his words becoming cold and more analytic when he didn’t. And that made him terrified regardless. It was enough, almost, to make him focus on actually annotating again.

 _‘…that seething, bloody Revolution which was overthrowing a monarchy, attacking a religion, destroying a society, in order to try and rebuild upon the ashes of tradition a new Utopia, of which few men dreamed, but which none had the power to establish.’ – if you could say all wars have one thing in common, it would be this._ Toby found himself thinking of Freddie at that. He assumed, or perhaps it was more that he hoped, that Freddie would not see action for some time, hoped or assumed he hadn’t at all yet. Briefly, he thought that perhaps he should actually ask his brother, but Toby shied away from the thought almost as soon as it was formed. Some things were better left unknown, at this point at least, while the pair of them were so far away from each other.

_‘…I had never loved anyone before… naturally I thought it was not in my nature to love.’ – I too would like someone to prove me wrong._

_‘…that anonymity which crowned him, as if with a crown of romantic glory.’_ Toby found himself underlining the quote, if only because, and he’d never admit to such a thought out loud, already blushing much to his horror as he thought on it, but. It rather reminded him of his annotator.

Slamming the book shut, Toby hurriedly got up and rushed back the bookshelf, stuffing the novel back into its usual spot, always between the philosophy and religion sections, attempting futilely to push thoughts of the annotator back where he couldn’t see them, blatantly ignoring the shaking of his already clammy hands. In his hurry to leave, Toby missed the way Adil’s widened at the suddenness of his departure, the snapping of the book. In his hurry to leave, Toby missed the way Adil’s eyes tracked him all the way out the door.

…

This time, when Toby went looking for the Scarlet Pimpernel, it wasn’t the new annotations that jumped out at him first; crammed between the lines of the text as if to save space for their own words, the annotator had wound dozens and dozens of tiny sketched flowers in crumbly red pencil, some so small they looked like little more than a smattering of freckles across the page. There was no particular pattern to them at all, as if they’d been drawn absentmindedly whilst he had been reading, barely any consideration behind them at all except for the deliberate choice in colour.

 _Murder or no, the author is awfully fond of the aristos,_ the annotator wrote, _you can certainly hear her lineage in her writing. Yours too for that matter, though perhaps not so highly ranked._

_A whole chapter on attending the theatre? Why am I not surprised that this is how politics works?_

_The Chauvelin is… creepy. The quietest threats are always the most intimidating, and he’s very good at them it would seem. And family is nearly always a weak point – I know mine is. Repetition – ‘“had you not spoken about my brother…”’_

Toby glared at the initial note, trying very hard not to laugh. Gently, he pulled the notepaper from where the annotator had tucked it between the pages, gripping it between two fingers as he juggled to tug a pen and a notebook from his satchel.

Toby had bought the new notebook especially for this, though anyone would know that he didn’t need another blank notebook. Pinning the annotator’s note to the first page with a paperclip, Toby wrote his reply just below, leaving the new page intact.

_I feel like I should act at the very least mock-offended at how easily you picked that up, though second son in a well-off family is hardly a prized position._

He then tucked the notebook back onto the shelf, making the Scarlet Pimpernel at home in its place in his satchel, intent on finishing the rest of the annotator’s notes later.

…

_My apologies Mr Tertiary Education, some of us dropped out of school when we were fourteen because we had to work. But my little brother has grand plans for university after he graduates next year. Second son doesn’t seem so bad to me – there’s less expectation, different opportunities._

It was easier to keep in contact, with the notebook to tide them over while one of them had the actual book in their possession. Though it had taken a day or so for the annotator to _find_ the notebook, clearly they had taken to it; the page opposite their reply littered with tiny sketches, stars and flowers and vines.

 _Best of luck to your brother then,_ Toby penned back _. It’s a bit strange isn’t it, that we seem to write to each other so often yet we never actually ask about each other? I know nothing about you, except now, apparently, that you’re not a student, you have a brother, and you write poetry. Would it be terribly arrogant of me to assume that you’re staff? And yet it doesn’t feel like you’re a stranger._

He found the reply in a matter of hours, thinking to check the shelf as an afterthought as Toby went to leave the library, the sun catching the glass of the windows and blackening the shadows cast across the narrow walkways.

_And what I know of you is that you ARE a student, and that apparently your parents are rather rich, possibly titled, and you and your father don’t get on. You would be correct in believing that I’m staff though. What can I say? I’m a man of simple means._

Toby blinked down at the reply. Reading and rereading until the words became meaningless, just rounded lines on a page, his mind still. So the annotator _was_ a man. Toby wasn’t sure how he felt about that – the swooping relief in his stomach was nearly enough to make him sick. Distantly, Toby was aware that his hands felt as if they were going slightly numb

 _You know,_ the annotator continued, _this is a very slow method of communication. What if you decide not to return the book to the library? You’ll forget all about me…_

Toby huffed fondly at the note, a small smile peeking out the corner of his mouth in spite of the way his hands still shook. He paused for a moment, pondering, before reaching for his pen, shooting glances around him as if he was doing something illegal.

_Is it wrong that I like that it’s slow? It gives me something to look forward to. And I’m awfully afraid you wouldn’t find me half as interesting if you tried to speak to me all at once instead of across days and days._

Toby paused, wondering if maybe he should say more, considering if he’d said too much already. There was so much tied up in his head, so many confusing and conflicting thoughts, and it felt rather like his brain was chewing through himself too fast. To have someone, who he could write to, and not have to deal with speaking with again immediately was a comfort. That he could take the time to formulate the perfect reply was a relief. Words on paper were so much _easier_ than said out loud. Toby bit his lip, feeling his smile widen slightly as he thought more about the mystery writer. It was like having a friend in his pocket, he thought, but this was so much better than the old book he’d held onto from his childhood. This person was still here, and painfully, beautifully real.

Toby glanced over at Adil, stood behind the desk as usual, elegant as always. Toby gripped his pen tighter in his hand, trying to ignore the bizarre swoop of guilt floating through his stomach as he looked at Adil. _Like this, it always feels like you’re in reach,_ he finished, folding the note up and tucking it between the pages, pressed against the annotator’s moment of vulnerability. Toby couldn’t even find it in himself to regret his openness. There was something about him, something that Toby trusted without even realising when he’d started to. It was as terrifying as it was thrilling.

…

_Juxtaposition – Sir Percy vs the Scarlet Pimpernel (the fool vs the genius), Chauvelin vs Scarlet Pimpernel (villain vs hero, French vs English)_

_So, are you focusing on the masked hero aspect of the story or the romance?_ The annotator asked, seemingly conversational, but Toby imagined there was something familiar to amusement threaded through the penmanship, a well familiar teasing in their tone. _And in that sense, are you picturing yourself as Marguerite or Percy? I mean, I could hazard a guess, but you might be offended by my assumptions._

Toby sighed. _Can I not appreciate both?_ He’d written, slipping the notebook back in place and removing the Scarlet Pimpernel again, flicking it open as he went to return to his seat.

By chance Toby happened to check the notebook again before he left for the day, sliding the novel in beside it, thickened with notepaper where his thoughts had been too much for the margins of the book. _By all means,_ the annotator wrote _. Though I was going to guess romance._

 _…perhaps. Don’t hold it against me,_ Toby had replied in turn, never even bothering to walk away from the bookshelf before he’d tucked the notebook back in its spot.

The following reply came the next morning; Toby had never been more glad to be concealed so by the shelves as he was then, a furious blush threading its way down the back of his neck. He couldn’t even be sure if he was embarrassed or pleased.

_I would never. I think it’s sweet._

The sentiment left him smiling even through the dullest of his classes all day.

…

Toby debated for some time whether or not he should return the Scarlet Pimpernel properly; allow it to be reshelved where it was meant to be, not the non-fiction section, and certainly not caught down the back of the shelving unit amongst the fiction.

It only seemed fair; he’d returned all the other books, bar one which Toby could only assume his annotator had done for him.

Toby nearly expected Adil to open the book as he returned it, almost expected him to call him out for writing in a book that belonged to the library, Adil’s library, as far as Toby was concerned anyway. He expected him to flick open the book, or for it to fall open, for Adil to catch sight of the flowers the annotator had sketched between the lines of text, the tiny weakly red petals of an old pencil stark on cream paper and black text. What he didn’t expect was the way Adil thumbed at the top corner of the book, as though he was itching to open it, evidently already familiar with the novel. Which, Toby thought, was rather strange in and of itself, if only because it had taken him such trouble to find the book in the first place.

“Will that be all, Mr Hamilton?”

“Yes, thank you, Adil.” As he walked away, Toby couldn’t help but wish he’d said more.

…

Toby left one last note on the matter to the annotator, letting him know he’d returned the book, looking for anything that he ought to reply to before he went looking for the next book. He only hesitated a moment, the words spilling out of him onto the page, painfully honest.

 _Apparently a lifetime’s worth of caution couldn’t make me hesitate in pouring out everything to you. It’s a terrifying thought, isn’t it?_ He wrote it on scrap paper – something his annotator could take for themselves if they needed or wanted, but more importantly, to keep it impermanent in all the ways writing across the notebook’s own pages wasn’t. Quietly Toby slipped the book back onto the shelf, chewing viciously at his lip as he went.

…

 _I couldn’t agree more; I have never felt the need to hesitate with you,_ the annotator replied a day or so later, a tiny red flower painted in the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a bit of a rough week, and I genuinely wasn't sure I was going to be able to write at all - I have no idea how this ended up being the longest chapter so far??   
> Also, I know I slightly roasted the scarlet pimpernel when Toby was looking for it... I want you to know that is actually directly in reference to the fact that it took me something like six months to find the damn thing in a bookshop - any bookshop - last year, because apparently very few places actually stock it. no idea if that's the actual case in the UK, or in the 40s. it is actually a good book I swear.


	6. Macbeth – April, 1940

_This is going to sound strange,_ Toby wrote, _but I have an essay due on this in two weeks, which would be fine, except I really cannot bring myself to care about Shakespeare. Would it be too much trouble to ask you for help on this?_

Tearing the page off, Toby folded it carefully into his pocket, already pulling himself up from the desk in the library and heading over to the non-fiction section. He tucked it carefully in the usual spot where Toby knew they would find the note, and hopefully, he would find a reply soon enough.

The final term of the school year had the library packed with students, people who’d never bothered to set foot in the building suddenly realising that even if they didn’t do well in the earlier sessions, they at the very least needed to improve their averages before the year ended. Toby huffed, casting a venomously unimpressed look at the student who’d thought it a good idea to take his usual seat. Not so upset as to be prepared to argue the point, Toby nonetheless relished the small pool of satisfaction he felt when the student flushed in embarrassment, ducking their head to avoid his eye, though they did not move to get up.

The few seats remaining were tucked awkwardly against the walls, the desks somewhat smaller than the others, and Toby groaned internally at the realisation that he wasn’t going to be able to spread out his notes across the table as much as he usually did. Perhaps the only perk of the table he ended up settling at was the fact that he was closer to the front desk, positioned in such a way that for a change he might be able to watch Adil without getting caught. The idea caught him off guard, even more so than it had all the previous times he’d done so; thoughts of the annotator so infrequently left the forefront of his mind that it was rare that he thought of Adil without the barest pang of guilt, even if Toby could hardly understand it.

Toby hunched over his desk, already hellbent on wasting time now that he’d been thrown off by the seating change. Between staring down at the essay question he’d been given, underlining words without ever opening the sources he was meant to be siting, let alone actually planning the damn thing, Toby flicked between watching Adil, and the rustling movement of the other students, grating in all the ways the bustle of the library usually soothed him.

He lasted an hour. And that was only because Toby wanted to give the annotator a chance to find his note; well aware that it may not have been found yet, Toby yielded to the fact that he was in fact, going to have to come back to the library later. Wholeheartedly pessimistic about the outcome, Toby checked their spot in the non-fiction section regardless, blinking in muted surprise when he saw the annotator had in fact, already replied.

_Well, that depends. You really aren’t giving me a lot to go off here. You are aware that he has more than one work, correct?_

Toby grinned. _Are you at all familiar with Macbeth?_

…

The Macbeth essay, as straight forward as it had seemed when he had read the question, acted out in such a way that it was as if it were actively fighting him. In as much as Toby had, in the past, somewhat enjoyed seeing Shakespeare in theatres with his family, it was quite another to try and understand the language without the visual cues of an actor yelling dramatically on stage. And as much as he tried, reading and rereading the same passages over and over, his brain staunchly refused to compute the old-style language. The list of characters, forty-two with speaking roles, over a dozen more who didn’t even speak but were apparently important enough to be listed, was enough to do his head in.

It was hardly his fault either; the witches spoke in riddles even by Shakespearean standards; how was he supposed to focus on it when his heart truly wasn’t in it?

_‘A drum, a drum/Macbeth doth come.’ – waiting for him, premeditated. Controlling of the narrative… something, something…_

_‘…oftentimes, to win us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tell us truths; win us with honest trifles, to betray’s in deepest consequence.’ – well at least someone has self-preservation? Foreshadowing…_

Giving up, Toby reached for the notebook, pulling it towards him from where he’d discarded it just out of reach – deliberately – while he’d attempted to work on his assignment. He’d known the moment that he opened it, seeing the more conversational replies from the annotator would leave him far too distracted to do work, but seeing as he could hardly focus as it was, it seemed of little consequence now.

He flicked to the most recent page they’d used, his own handwriting headlining the page.

_…I prefer it at university to home if I’m honest. My mother can’t play matchmaker if she’s still in London. I am yet to meet a society girl who I actually enjoy the company of._

It hadn’t been a particularly high brow conversation; it was the kind of conversation two people might have had late at night, a drink or two between them, just happy to talk to each other, basking in each other’s company as much as one could with a notebook and a pen, more curious than desperate.

_I’m fortunate enough to have moved out long before my mother tried to pair me up with girls. I feel like the resulting arguments would have been far too awkward when she realised I was never and will never be interested in finding a wife._

It was subtle. Not wanting a wife didn’t necessarily mean… and yet. Toby could hardly bring himself to jump through those well-practised mental hoops, spin that familiar web of denial. His pulse picked up, thrumming louder in his ears the longer he stared at the annotator’s note, _his_ annotator’s note, so much so that he very nearly missed the line beneath it.

_You’re probably going to stop writing to me now, aren’t you?_

Toby drew a breath, forcibly making himself relax back into his chair from where he’d hunched forward, muscles tense with expectation and realisation. The annotator evidently had trusted him, initially at least, with this secret; though just because he didn’t think Toby would find a way to report him, didn’t mean that the annotator trusted him to stay. Abruptly, Toby felt that he was sitting some kind of exam, a test, and _that_ was something he was familiar with.

_No, I still need help with my essay._

Releasing his breath, Toby only hesitated a second longer, rushing to put pen to paper before he lost his nerve.

_And at any rate, I think there’s a possibility that I might be the same._

Thoroughly terrified, Toby closed the notebook, pushing it back to the edge of his desk. He retrieved _Macbeth_ from where it had somehow managed to fall to the floor in his distraction. It would seem that too much self-discovery was a perfect motivator for school work; something to distract him from the way his hands shook and pulse thrummed, and, quite unconsciously, a smile began to poke out the corner of his mouth.

…

The annotator never offered a written reply to that; Toby imagined he would have struggled in that sense as well. But the next evening Toby found that the page over from where the two of them had been writing was a sketch of a pair of interlocked hands, coarsely shaded but painfully detailed, entwined with tiny white flowers. One hand was darker than the other, and Toby could only assume that was the hand of the annotator; he clearly knew enough about Toby to correctly assume he was English. Yet he found himself staring at the other hand, the one belonging to the annotator, tracing the lines of it and wincing slightly at when the soft graphite rubbed off on his fingers. His first glance at the man, physically even if it wasn’t. Toby had never been so starkly aware that while he knew a great deal about the man in question, he knew absolutely nothing as well, the contrast making it almost look like a shadow to his own sketched hand.

Coming to terms with himself was a strange thing; having that one thing click into place at last. He’d _known_ something hadn’t been right, had known there was a reason when he just couldn’t follow the way Freddie had nervously then confidently murmured about girls in the dark, grinning at him like Toby was in on the secret, like he knew what his brother, and every other teenage boy for that matter, was talking about. He got it now, and was well passed wishing that he didn’t. But, as he looked over at Adil, ever elegant behind the front desk, Toby was painfully aware that it didn’t mean he knew what to do about it.

It felt like a betrayal to the man he’d been writing to in the margins of his books, but that didn’t change the fact that, of course, Toby had been picturing Adil that first time _anyway,_ that perhaps, he’d been _attracted_ to Adil from the beginning, and not even known it. But that too didn’t change the fact that Toby had never allowed himself the chance to get to know Adil, had run off and hidden and stuttered and just generally made a mess of himself every time he’d had a chance, like somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd known what he wanted and been too terrified of giving it a chance before he even knew why.

But in as much as he _knew_ the annotator, that didn’t mean he _actually_ knew him. Toby knew that, at the very least, he was very attached to him, would be gutted if he disappeared from him now. He had no idea when he’d gotten to that point, from where Toby considered the annotator someone he liked having nearby, in as much as he ever was, to now being someone he desperately _wanted,_ whatever _that_ meant, to have close by, even when he couldn’t. Toby still wasn’t sure what that meant.

But what made it all so confusing was that Toby was _desperately_ trying to keep Adil and the annotator as separate people in his mind, and his heart just wasn’t in it, the contrast in the sketched hands making it seem all the more plausible. He _wanted,_ and he wanted them to be the same person and that just wasn’t fair.

And to make it worse, Toby was practically drowning in unfinished work, as if he had time for study when he was having an entire crisis like this. It felt cruel of his professors and tutors to ask this of him, truly.

Toby sighed and attempted to skim through Macbeth’s Act I again, pen at the ready. He wasn’t getting anywhere anyway; perhaps distraction was the way to go. Perhaps, even, running his brain in circles over his feelings was enough to get his notes done _this_ time, if not the essay entirely, if it meant he could think in a straight line for a moment.

 _Everything seems to happen in threes,_ he scrawled at the bottom of the page, his mind momentarily caught on witches and schemes.

_Apparently being titled Thane of Cawdor predisposes you to being a power-hungry idiot. Unrelated I promise, but now I’m thinking about my father._

The note poured idly from his pen somewhere around the third scene of Act I, but Toby had long since stopped being anxious about being personal in his annotations. And besides, it wasn’t as if he’d been _specific_ about why he’d connect titles with greed, ambition, and Lawrence Hamilton. Though he did wonder what the annotator would have to say on the matter.

And there he was again. How was Toby supposed to separate himself, or even merely his study from the man, when he was always at the forefront of his mind, thoughts emptied all over his books?

 _Sometimes,_ he wrote, _thinking about you makes it hard to breathe._

Toby gripped his pen harshly, hands shaking as he slammed the book shut, shoving it back onto the shelf before he could think too hard about it, before he could regret it, before he could take it back and scratch it out.

Two days later he found the reply, crammed at the edge of the margin, as if the writer hadn’t been sure he wanted Toby to see them either.

 _Sometimes,_ he wrote, _thinking about you reminds me that I can breathe at all._

The air rushed out of Toby’s lungs all at once, and he felt himself fall back against the shelves with a thunk. His hands wound tightly around the cover of the play, nails digging into the spine and the pages, and Toby buried his teeth so far into his bottom lip that he came into very real danger of splitting it, but it didn’t matter because it did nothing to stifle the giddy grin, nor the happy flutter of his pulse. It was terrifying and it was dangerous, but it didn’t seem to matter to his heart, which thumped loudly enough in his ears that Toby might have worried about falling over had he otherwise been able to stand _._

…

 _Well then if we compare the two Thanes of Cawdor, while you might be right in saying both commit treason etc. the original confessed to his crimes and recognised what he’d done as a crime; Macbeth did not. What would you say to that?_ The annotator wrote across the top of the page of the play. In the notebook, he had written an almost perfectly structured poem about nothing in particular, as if refusing Toby the opportunity to distract himself. Though it would seem that the annotator had underestimated him on that count.

_I feel like you’re writing sonnets specifically to spite me now._

_I spend even more time in the library than you do I would think,_ he replied later that day. _Don’t hold it against me that I actually enjoy Shakespeare. Besides, if you can recognise sonnet format just like that, surely it can’t be so hard for you to find something to write about in regards to the structure and technique of Macbeth?_

Toby let his head hit the table with a decided thunk, fingers raking through his hair, leaving it a mattered looking mess of curls. The sun had long since fallen below the line of the library’s window sills, his notebook full of little more than half thought out scribbles, a mess of shorthand and half thought out points that could only possibly be described as sentences if he squinted, each minute that ticked by leaving them all the more meaningless.

_It's more the fact that I HAVE to write about it that I resent. The play itself isn’t so bad._

“Are you alright?”

Toby felt his spine stiffen at the familiar voice, and he all but threw himself back into his chair properly, the notebook hurriedly pulled to his chest, and hopefully out of sight enough that Adil would not ask about it.

“I’m sorry?” Toby asked in a strangled voice. “Oh, god, sorry I didn’t realise the time…” he stared mournfully at his notes, mentally calculating the energy it would take to pack them up then reassemble them in much the same way back in his room, already resigned to the fact that it likely wasn’t going to happen. “I should have already left.”

Adil tilted his head to one side, gaze never leaving Toby, even if it left his face for barely a moment, considering. “You know,” he said, leaning back against the desk beside Toby. “I’m the only staff member still here. And I think you’re the only student left as well.”

Toby swallowed thickly at the realisation that he was alone in the building with Adil, who was standing frighteningly close to him, without the front desk between them. The last time he’d been so close Toby had literally run into him.

“Which means,” Adil continued, choosing not to address Toby’s internal crisis, if he even realised it was happening. “I can make you leave at any time. Including well past when I _should_ have.”

Toby’s eyes widened as his brain finally picked up on what Adil _actually_ had been implying, already hurriedly looking away to hide his blush. He stared down at the mess he’d made on the desk, trying to weigh up Adil’s offer fast enough that he wouldn’t pick up on what he was doing.

“I’m not sure I’ll get very far regardless…” Toby muttered, continuing to stare despairingly at the desk. He only looked up when he caught Adil sliding into the seat next to him in his peripheral.

“What if I help?” Adil offered Toby that measured stare that was so familiar to him. “Run me through what you’ve got, say what you’re thinking out loud to me. We’re the only ones here, it’s not like we’d be disturbing anyone. And I’ll do my best to help you.”

“Really?”

Adil nodded, a suppressed half-smile shining in his eyes even if his mouth remained still. Toby regarded him for another moment, anxiety eating him up at the thought of Adil listening to him ramble about Macbeth, but more than anything, Toby was trying to weigh up whether he should actually indulge in the quiet thrill that had settled in the pit of stomach at having Adil’s attention all to himself, with no chance of being interrupted.

“Okay,” he whispered, lighting up inside when Adil let his smile break out over his face.

…

_There’s something to be said about bloodlust; each murder leads to more murders, yet it's implied that Macbeth does not actually enjoy/want to commit the act?_

_Tunnel vision and greed._

_Blatant good vs evil narrative. It would be almost boring if it wasn’t so dramatic._

It became slightly more difficult when Toby caught sight of notes left by the annotator, resisting the urge to curl around the copy of the play so that Adil wouldn’t see when he left a reply rather than making his own notes.

_What do you think of Lady Macbeth threatening her husband’s masculinity every time he regrets or doubts his actions?_

_I think its highly consistent with married aristocratic women. And their husbands._

Somewhere around two o’clock they must have fallen asleep, both men slumped forward on the desk, undisturbed until the sun flooded through the still open windows a handful of hours later.

Adil was already awake, or upright at least, by the time Toby found himself blinking into the sunlight, screwing up his face when the light caught his eye, curling further into himself as if he might better stave off the coming morning if he continued to pretend it wasn’t happening.

“You look like you could use some coffee,” Adil murmured into the quiet, regarding Toby with a look that Toby was sure was far too intense so early in the day.

“Yes. I don’t know how to make it though,” Toby mumbled, not lifting his face from where it was pillowed against the crook of his elbow.

“Remind me, I’ll show you how sometime,” Adil replied equally sleepily. “We have some in the staff room I think.”

With a yawn Toby pushed himself into something resembling a proper sitting position, groaning when he caught sight of the time. “I have class in four hours…”

“And I technically started work thirty minutes ago,” Adil stared dead-eyed at the clock beside Toby, as if it might change if he remained unblinking long enough. “Coffee,” he grumbled, pushing himself to his feet. “Are you coming, Mr Hamilton?”

Toby frowned at the use of his last name, but got up regardless, leaving his belongings, and three-quarters of an essay outline on the desk, the notebook stashed safely in his satchel.

…

 _Do you think,_ the annotator pondered, _that Macbeth really sees the ghosts? Readers can. Audiences would have. Or is it simply symbolic?_

Toby couldn’t help the pang of guilt as he read the annotator’s note, the previous night in the library, with Adil, leaving him all sorts of kinds of confused.

Two people. One who he’d never seen, but knew and was known better than perhaps any person ever had outside his family, or more importantly, besides Freddie. The one who was little more than neatly printed handwriting on the crisp and crumbling and white and yellowed pages of novels and plays and poems, a man with a pen. And the other, who Toby undoubtedly was _attracted_ to, but truthfully didn’t know him enough to determine if he actually _liked_ him. And besides, everyone liked Adil. That didn’t change the fact that he didn’t _know_ him, not like he did the annotator, but in that lay the very simple problem that Toby simply didn’t know who the annotator was.

 _It certainly seems real enough to Macbeth,_ Toby replied. He was so close to being finished, he could nearly see the end, but his emotions, once again, were making it too difficult, all of them tied up in a project that _shouldn’t have been difficult._ Last term he was sure he’d have finished it by now. Now Toby could hardly force himself to continue, the terror of deadlines nothing compared to that of his feelings.

…

“You haven’t finished it yet?”

“No, I… help.” Toby thrust the notebook containing his essay draft at Adil, as if he might miraculously make it coherent. Or complete. Adil raised an eyebrow at him, but obediently looked down to begin skimming Toby’s notes.

“Toby, half of this is in shorthand,” Adil stated, appalled.

“Yes! Yes, it is. But that’s okay, because it’s just a draft.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

“I’m fine.” Stated flippantly, reaching for his essay again, tugging it from Adil’s hands as quickly as he’d given it to him.

“That’s not what I asked,” Adil said, allowing Toby to take his notes back, the serious look on his face nearly enough to make Toby slow down.

“The deadline for my essay is in five hours; I can sleep afterwards. For as long as I like even. Until then,” Toby gestured to the disaster of an essay draft. “I need to finish this.”

 _“Toby,”_ Adil swore, an absolutely appalled look on his face. “Do I even want to know why you haven’t already finished?”

Toby sunk to his seat, face heating up at Adil’s scolding. “It’s mostly finished. It just needs a bit of polishing. Shouldn’t take more than two hours to edit and transcribe it so it's readable.” He ran a hand roughly over his face, pushing his fringe back out of his eyes. Old brille cream left it sticking nearly upright but for where it fell forward again under its own weight, and Toby felt his face heating up again as Adil watched it.

Adil sighed, smiling in spite of everything as he leant more heavily against the table. “Should I bring us over some coffee then?”

Toby blinked owlishly at him, brain finally, albeit still frantically, stumbling to a halt at Adil’s casual _“us”,_ leaving Toby almost unable to answer the question.

“I thought… you can bounce ideas off me again,” Adil mumbled, almost shy. “Since it worked fairly well last time.”

“Yes! Um, yes, that would be- that would be lovely. Thank you,” Toby rushed, sure his face and the back of his neck was bright red.

Adil smiled, looking back up at him. “I’ll be back in a minute then.”

“Yes, erm. No-”

“-Sugar. I remember.”

Toby felt himself slump back into his chair, entirely boneless as he watched Adil’s retreating back, suddenly unsure if he would be able to finish in two hours after all.

…

_Please tell me you’ve finished the essay._

Toby rolled his eyes. It would seem that everyone was going to scold him about that today.

 _Yes,_ he replied. _And I got it in before the deadline, so I don’t see what the problem is. You certainly shouldn’t be stressing about my work…_

The reply was almost too quick, like the annotator had been waiting for him.

_You asked for my help. I’m invested now. You can’t tell me it’s wrong that I care about that, of all things. ~~Not now at least? I thought-~~_

_Fair is foul and foul is fair._ Toby groaned, letting his head fall forward onto the desk, trying vainly to push through the mess of emotions in his chest. It was like he was making this harder for himself on purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> less annotations simply because I personally didn't want to read macbeth. but more Adil because it's what he deserves. we're nearly there guys!


	7. The Picture of Dorian Gray – May, 1940

_I’m supposed to be going home for the weekend. My parents are throwing my brother a party. Some congratulatory thing about something or other he’s done in the RAF._

The invitation had arrived over a week ago, but Toby had carefully, albeit accidentally, filed it away in the top draw of his desk for later, having only opened it a couple of days ago, eyes rolling so far back into his head he would have sworn he’d seen the edge of his brain. It was entirely performative; Freddie had qualified as a pilot at nearly the same time Toby had found out he’d gotten into Oxford. His brother qualifying as an _officer_ however… Well, Toby could only assume Freddie wasn’t aware that the position was clearly bought by their father. Surely Freddie wouldn’t be able to tolerate such an event if he knew it was almost entirely a sham.

_You don’t sound particularly keen. Not a fan of the social scene?_

_I don’t see how I’ve ever given you reason to believe that I am,_ Toby replied, leaning back against his desk chair. _I’ve also decided I’m not going. My father will be furious when I don’t show. But I’ve already told my brother, I don’t think he’ll care; he always ignores me at these sorts of things anyway._

Toby hadn’t bothered to look for the reply for the next few days, suddenly caught up and distracted in a desperate haze of school work that, whilst didn’t have close deadlines, served well in the sense that it gave himself something to redirect the anxiety that tasted like bile at the back of his throat at the thought of his father’s fury when he didn’t come home. It additionally served well in the sense that it meant that Toby could spend time away from the library, take a moment just to himself where he could think on, or not, process, or not, the mess of feelings in his chest, that swooping feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he locked eyes with Adil, that giddy thrill every time he found a note from the annotator.

_Go find us a new book and stop stressing. I’m always here if you need me._

Toby released the breath that had been building up in the bottom of his lungs, a smile ghosting over his face as he stared down at the notebook, pen absentmindedly tracing idle lines in the margins.

 _I don’t know what I’d do without you._ Of course, he was never able to stay away for long.

…

_You do know the connotations of this book, right?_

_Of course._

Toby had, of course, chosen the Picture of Dorian Gray on purpose. He wasn’t sure what that purpose was besides seeing what the annotator’s reaction to it might be, though the one he’d gotten was certainly amusing enough for him to deem it worth it.

 _Something wicked this way comes,_ the annotator quoted, and Toby could nearly picture the grin on his face, could very nearly hear the way he shaped the words, teasing and bright with mischief.

 _Stop quoting Shakespeare at me,_ Toby wrote back, pausing for a second, heart in his throat before he continued; _it’s not nearly as romantic as you seem to think it is._

_Appearances (literal ones i.e. the aesthetics of a person/place/thing) over truth/intention or the goodness of a person; Dorian’s appearance prized over his actions even as society becomes nervous about the extremes of his lifestyle. Something about commentary about Victorian society at large. The idea that sin leaves a physical mark on a person._

Though his heart still thundered in his ears Toby resisted the urge to slam the book shut immediately, opting to continue with his own annotations rather than give in to the blunted thrill of anxiety over a message that was likely not as bold as he thought it was.

Satisfied that he’d caught the last of his mystery man’s additions, Toby swallowed back his nervousness, tucking the novel back onto their spot on the shelf, just slightly out of place in his distraction. He stubbornly ignored the shaking of his hands, his white-knuckled grip on his satchel almost entirely covering the indiscretion from himself, even if it wouldn’t hold up to anyone else’s observations.

_‘…dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.’ – you can’t pretend to be upset with me quoting Shakespeare when the novel you picked out references The Tempest on the first-page sweetheart._

Later Toby would find the reply, carefully printed in the Wilde book, completely meaningless to anyone else but the two of them, and it would leave him a happy blushing mess. A sketched figure hunched over a book detailed the next page in the notebook, pen in hand and lost in their own world, coarsely drawn and faceless in their positioning, fringe obscuring anything that might have been needed as an identifier so as to not give away the fact that the annotator had no clear idea of the image of the man he had drawn; it could have been anyone. Yet the shading of the clothing, the way the light filtered through the library’s windows crowned the figure with a sunlight halo, so painfully detailed in spite of the style in which it was achieved belayed something of its own intimacy. Known and unknown, but definitely regarded fondly.

_‘…I have put too much of myself into it.’_

_‘…felt we were destined to know each other.’_

Perhaps it was foolish. Perhaps it was a terribly dangerous game, perhaps it was merely setting himself up for heartbreak, but maybe it was the most known Toby had possibly ever been in his entire life, and perhaps that meant that any and every risk would be worth it. There was safety, deniability in written words on a page, with no physical relationship to back them up, but they were perhaps more damning in their own right. There was no denying what Toby felt for the annotator was spilt all over near half a dozen books, each of which was somewhere in the library where anyone could stumble across them; their one protection was their anonymity. But that didn’t stop his want, nor his affection.

With a sigh Toby sat the notebook back down onto his desk, leaving it open so he could stare at the picture, desperately grateful for the fact that, alone in his room, the soft mess of emotions, stark on pale skin, would go entirely unwitnessed. He then returned to the novel, flicking past the preface, certain that the annotator would have little more to say on that, keen to get to the actual beginning of the story.

The annotator’s handwriting was near perfectly in line with the print on the page, not dipping towards the bottom of the page like it was reaching out for ideas. Toby imagined he must have been sat at a desk, each word written with a defined purpose, rather than the tired comfort he was so familiar with when the annotator undoubtedly wrote late at night. His own annotation was littered with ink stains, his pen beginning to leak with either or age or overuse, the stains remaining a present reminder in the cuticles of his left hand.

_Something about “purity” of appearance taken to mean the same of a person’s ethics (you and the book call it sin). Actions reflecting appearance. Very English. Or colonialist even. And very, very Victorian. Further reflected in the change in the portrait’s appearance._

Toby could almost have rolled his eyes at that, though not for the fact that the annotator had pointed it out. It would seem that high society would never change. Though, he was somewhat relieved, disappointed only in the back of his mind, that his annotator had reverted back to plain analysis. There was only so many endearments his heart could take before Toby was sure he would start staking out their shelf in the library.

 _Youth as a synonym for beauty, purity and naivety. Poor Dorian. ~~Imagine I’m saying something witty but slightly cruel about my brother~~ they really set him up for failure, didn’t they? _Toby scratched out the line almost as soon as he’d written it; his parents might well be fair game for his mockery, but however much he resented Freddie sometimes, it never quite seemed fair, unless of course, Freddie was around to actually hear it.

Having found himself with nothing left to say, Toby slid the notebook, along with several class readings into his satchel and headed to the library. It was strange, walking through the quad now. Toby found himself taking more issue with dodging soldiers and officers, than actual students; boys in uniforms leaning carelessly against railings and walls, cigarettes in hand or poking out the corner of their mouths. Their numbers seemed to have grown as the term had progressed, with many students deferring or outright dropping out altogether; one too many pushy officers, loud-mouthed soldiers begging for action and badmouthing something as menial as bookwork. Those who remained, for the most part, regarded the soldiers with barely concealed hostility; it was recognised that they were serving King and country, would eventually do something for the war effort, that did not mean they were appreciated for the coarseness of their behaviour, or the ridiculous ways in which many of them conducted themselves in the dining hall.

Even the library seemed emptier than usual now, the bustle of last month dropping off steeply for seemingly no reason. And yet.

“You seem awfully busy.” He hadn’t expected to say so, but that didn’t make it less true; Adil seemed near buried between piles of books, the returns box overflowing, many of the shelves standing bare.

“There have been a fair few officers coming and going, talking to the staff,” Adil muttered, dropping another stack of books, now sorted, onto the desk with a bang, making them both wince, Toby glancing over his shoulder out of habit. “It would seem there must have been a line at the enlistment office afterwards.”

“You look tired,” Toby murmured, concern creasing his brow. The bags under Adil’s eyes could have been darker than most of the students, which was impressive with exams coming up.

Adil’s shoulders went lax as he looked up at Toby, finally meeting his eye. His smile seemed entirely unconscious as he shook his head, nearly fond. “Now who’s fussing over who?”

“I mean it.”

Adil sighed, staring down at his hands. “I know.” He glanced back up with Toby suddenly, a shy grin taking over his face. “I’m overdue my break, I don’t suppose you’d join me? I know you probably have work to do…”

Toby bit his lip, a blush working its way up the back of his neck. “I’d love to.”

…

 _You have to promise me you won’t enlist,_ Toby would later plead, turning to their notebook as he’d laid awake rereading letters from his brother about France, about enemy planes along the coast edging ever closer. Toby couldn’t imagine them ever breaching the channel, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t entirely too aware of the danger on the mainland, the danger his brother faced every day, willingly. _Forget patriotism, I can’t lose you._

 _They’ve shortened my degree because of the war,_ he’d add the next morning after the news broke. _I don’t see how a literature degree helps the war effort though._

 _They’ll have you writing propaganda I’d expect,_ came the reply a few days later, Toby having checked near religiously for a reply, only holding back in so much as to prevent himself from being caught. _I can’t lose you either,_ he continued and Toby felt tears prick the corners of his eyes, happy and scared.

It was ridiculous; the war was very much a very distant concept, but those soldiers who’d moved in at the beginning of the school calendar were getting restless, itching for guns and action and Toby, along with many of the other students, was getting nervous. Though were he to go by the correspondence of his mother, the war only served to inconvenience her with rationing and limited travel experience. Freddie still seemed all too innocently brushing his fingers through cloud; thrilled by flying, and terrified by leadership. How strange it was to be terrified by something you couldn’t see.

…

_‘… he is a Narcissus’ – Greek mythology. Foreshadowing. ‘The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation.’ – extended metaphor_

The quotes were pages apart, but Toby didn’t take any issue with rewriting them both in the margins, already prepared to face the annotator’s chiding about the lack of space he was leaving him on each page.

Sure enough, when Toby went to look for the expected reply as he was leaving the library later that evening, still blushing from Adil’s hasty farewell several hours after the fact, the annotator had indeed left a gentle scolding about the lack of writing space before they had properly replied in turn, dry as ever.

_I can’t say I agree with Lord Henry’s monologue about thinking making a person look ‘something horrid’ though. You’d be doomed._

He rolled his eyes, reaching for his pen. _Hilarious. I’m flattered that you consider me an intellectual._

Though Toby could hardly stop his mouth from falling open in mock outrage at the reply he found the next morning, curled up awkwardly on a chair in the study area, notes haphazardly arranged and otherwise ignored.

_Perhaps I was actually presuming your good looks._

Toby just barely managed to stifle his laughter, shook free from his chest in his surprise. He bit his lip at the sound the surrounding students in the library moving to look up, blushing furiously in embarrassment.

“You seem awfully pleased about something Mr Hamilton,” Adil murmured to him as he walked past, arms laden with books, and Toby felt something settle, heavy and ice-cold, into the pit of his stomach. Not dread, he could never dread Adil’s presence, only dread making a fool of himself, but that anxious guilt whenever Adil sort him out when Toby was caught up in thoughts of the annotator didn’t even catch him off guard anymore; it simply left him feeling like he was hurting one or the other with no real intention, in doing so only hurting himself.

Carefully sliding the notebook closed, pen still tucked inside, Toby met Adil’s eye, hoping he could write his blush off an embarrassment rather than anything else.

“It’s nothing,” he replied.

…

Toby stared down at the letter. He tried to reread it, to be sure he’d done so the first time correctly, but the words blurred together, his mother’s elegant cursive suddenly becoming illegible the longer Toby stared at it. Not in the sense that his retinas were blurred by tears, god knew his father wouldn’t have deserved them anyway, but in the sense that the further his brow furrowed in disbelief, the more his mind refused to believe it. Lawrence Hamilton was not capable of death; he would never have permitted his family that freedom.

In the corner of Dorian Gray, Toby wrote a short note, just because he could; he wasn’t sure else what else he could do.

 _My father has had a heart attack._ He didn’t have anyone else he could tell.

Toby had missed the party. Truthfully, by the time the day had rolled around he’d already forgotten it was happening; he’d never received a reply from his brother, even Emma had not been all that concerned about his absence apparently. He’d only remembered…

He’d-

The morning had been humid, the sky a dark grey that had been promising rain for the last week or so, like it had known, was going for all the stereotypes that Lawrence Hamilton had so lived by, stifling and cruel.

_Do you know when the funeral will be?_

_The start of June I expect. After term ends, if they can hold off long enough._

It changed nothing. That was perhaps, the hardest thing to come to terms with. Freddie and his mother were undoubtedly having their lives upended, Freddie would already be referred to as _Lord Hamilton_ by now. But for Toby, away from the hotel, absolutely nothing would change until he went home. And even then, well. He wasn’t Freddie. No one really cared what became of him anymore.

_I could have been like my brother. Soldiering is a skill, not a gift._

And wasn’t that something he’d heard often enough from his parents? Priscilla had certainly said it often enough, there were a great many types of analytical work he could have done. His father certainly, had said over and over, over and over and over; none of his work would ever be worth anything. But any man could hold a gun, pull a trigger. There were a great many boys learning to become killers these days. And now Lawrence had died before Toby would ever be able to prove him wrong and he couldn’t even understand why he suddenly cared; he knew his father certainly hadn’t. But something in the way his parents gazed at his brother, like Freddie could do no wrong, as if that weren’t the case specifically because of the way they had unwittingly broken him.

Toby didn’t know why he wanted to bleed out all over the notebook. A part of him didn’t even know how. He didn’t _want_ to be like Freddie; all the lords in the Halcyon compared them far too much as it was, for the simple reason that they were twins.

By the time Toby thought to retrieve the notebook from the bookshelf, he’d nearly forgotten what he’d written.

_Perhaps, but the soldier boys only look pretty from a distance. Don’t forget how the trenches fill with mud, and the skies fill with bleeding bombs and bullets and bodies._

_Awfully poetic of you._ He hadn’t known what else to say.

There was, however, something gentle in the reply that came a few hours later;

_It’s a skill, not a gift._

Though it may have just been sarcastic. Toby couldn’t decide which he preferred.

…

The library, Toby had decided, was a goddamn trap. The building and his feelings were clearly conspiring together against him. There was obviously no other explanation for his current predicament, nor in regards to his latest embarrassment.

Adil caught his eye as he entered, and Toby couldn’t help the prickle of guilt that worked its way up the back of his neck, even as he felt his heart swoop with happiness to see him. Arms laden with books, Toby found himself unable to tear his gaze away, trapped as he was even as he kept walking. It felt like eons. It was likely only two or three steps; a handful of seconds of burning and confusing intensity.

Still staring at Adil, Toby walked directly into a bookshelf, everything he was carrying falling to the floor. Toby stared down at it all, feeling his face heat up. In his peripheral, he caught Adil reaching up a hand to smother a smile. Toby remained unmoving, as if hoping that in doing so, his books and belongings might miraculously return to his arms.

“Sweater vests are _not_ attractive,” Toby muttered under his breath, blushing furiously in spite of himself.

The jumper in question was old and worn, the knit beginning to unravel around the hemline. There was _nothing_ about it that should have grasped Toby’s attention in such as way, really, except for the fact that it was just slightly too small, the weave straining ever so slightly over Adil’s chest, giving the bare minimum of definition, yet given that apparently the rest of Adi’s wardrobe, what little of it Toby had seen anyway, was given to clothes nearly as loose as Toby’s own, though perhaps more patched and worn, it felt nearly indecent. Oxford certainly didn’t waste money on tailored uniforms for the staff that couldn’t afford them.

“I’m sorry.” Toby nearly smacked into the bookshelf again at the sudden appearance of Adil behind him, and he felt his eyes widen with dread at the thought that Adil might have heard what he’d just said.

“I-”

“Let me help,” Adil continued, still evidently amused as he scooped up a handful of books with ease, Toby still staring at him vaguely shell shocked, blush growing in intensity even as he begged it to go away.

“No, you don’t-” Toby winced, snapping out of his reverie at last, scrambling to retrieve the remainder of the books and notes before Adil could, feeling something familiar in the process much to his annoyance. Surely he didn’t drop his belongings around Adil _that_ often. “Thank you.”

Adil grinned at him in response. “You’re headed to your usual spot then?” he asked.

“Um, yes, I- wait,” Toby stuttered, nearly dropping everything again in a fit as Adil began walking over to the study area, arms still full of Toby’s things. “No, let me… fine,” he grumbled, Adil not even trying to hide his laughter this time, though he paused to allow Toby to catch up.

“I’m due for my break, if you want company,” Adil murmured, almost shy as he set Toby’s books down on the table, not meeting his eye. 

Toby regarded him for a moment, taking the opportunity only so long as Adil looked away, trying to ignore the adrenalin thrumming through his veins, the humming in his chest.

“Okay,” he breathed, pulling out the chair beside him.

…

_Juxtaposition of the yellow book vs the portrait – influence and consequence. Consequence and idolisation; Basil_ _à Dorian_ _à Lord Henry. People are people. Believing another to be pure gives them power over you, and if you are blinded by that same idolisation perpetuates your own harm._

_An argument might be made for Sibyl as well. Though people often forget that because they’re too busy criticising Wilde for the homoerotic subtext between the three men._

It felt strange, annotating while Adil was sat beside him, as if Toby had something to hide; he did, actually, have something to hide, but whether that was the novel, the annotations, or something else, he was still unsure. Adil feigned disinterest almost perfectly as Toby read the annotator’s note; there was no way that Adil could actually see it, tucked up as he was behind his own book, reading quietly, simply happy for the company, and the break. Though there were times when Toby could swear he’d catch Adil looking at what Toby was working on, though what sparked his curiosity, Toby couldn’t tell. The look on Adil’s face was strange, patient even as he bit down on his lip with something that might have been anxiety – Toby couldn’t tell, but it seemed almost like he wanted to say something on the matter, that Adil was making a conscious effort not to do so.

That didn’t stop Toby from curling an arm protectively around the book as he replied, hoping Adil wouldn’t ask why he was writing directly onto the pages of the book. He could never be sure how library staff would react to annotations, even in books that were not in their charge.

_If Wilde’s original version of the novel was more textual in its homoeroticism, I’m curious about how Basil might have changed because…ah… I don’t think his dialogue is particularly subtextual in that sense. At all. Wilde really toed the line on that one._

Toby glanced over at Adil again, chewing the end of his pen as he tried to think what else to add. He only stopped when he felt ink against his tongue, the pen finally splitting against his teeth after nearly a year of abuse. With a wince, Toby added one last note, just an underline, not sure the pen would hold up too much more than that.

_‘There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.’_

…

Toby followed Adil back up to the front desk when his break was over. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t have any work left to do; the sheer volume of it was still spread all over his desk, and unlikely to be picked up any time soon. But it felt almost natural to follow Adil when he got up. And there was always the benefit of returning some of the sources and novels he’d carried in with him if anyone bothered to ask why.

Toby slid The Picture of Dorian Gray across the counter towards Adil quite unthinkingly alongside all his other books in need of shelving. It wasn’t even that he could say he didn’t notice it was included in the pile; he _had_ finished with it for now, of course it needed shelving then. There was something of a dare in the gesture, though Toby couldn’t have said what for.

Adil froze, hand hovering mid-air from where he’d been scooping up the books and sorting them into their respective piles, when he caught sight of the title, and once again Toby found himself thinking that it looked like Adil was barely holding himself back from saying something on the matter, though Toby could hardly imagine what it was that Adil found so daunting about the novel.

“Toby, I-” Adil swallowed heavily, and Toby held his breath, not sure what he was waiting for, just sure that it must have been important. Adil’s hand lowered ever so slowly, deliberately giving Toby time to pull his own away from the cover of the Picture of Dorian Gray, though he couldn’t quite manage to look him in the eye, still captivated by the title. Catching ahold of Toby’s sleeve, like he still couldn’t quite bring himself to touch bare skin, like that might have been what broke the moment, the barest amount of pressure where Adil’s fingers tried not to flex against the fabric.

Toby felt his pulse jump at the contact, eyes widening and unable to look away from Adil’s face. In the dim light he couldn’t be sure, but it almost seemed as if Adil might have been blushing as he stared unblinkingly down at their hands.

Adil swallowed again. “It’s nothing, Mr Hamilton,” he murmured, letting go and pulling the novel towards him, hands twitching around the cover as if itching to see its contents. Toby couldn’t understand it. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

…

In the confusion of it all, Toby didn’t manage to get much in the way of work done. Adil had disappeared back into the staff room not too long after, as if he could feel Toby watching him, and it only left him feeling perplexed, too much emotion built up inside him with no way to understand what it was, perhaps only that he wanted Adil to come and sit with him again, speak to him again, right then, wanted him to say whatever it was he wasn’t saying. But mostly he just found that he wanted, as he stared mournfully at the staffroom door as Adil exited it again, tracking him as he disappeared back between the shelves.

Toby glared down at his notes once he lost sight of Adil, not all that sure what to do with himself now. It was ridiculous, how Adil still managed to confuse him so much. With a familiar pang of guilt, Toby realised he still had the notebook in his possession, buried under two novels and another notebook, buffed out by additionally scraps of paper. With a sigh he uncovered it and pulled the notebook towards himself. It felt so much more straight forward with the annotator, somehow, but that didn’t change the fact that however he felt, and the annotator obviously felt, that the nature of the relationship was confusing him more as well. It didn’t seem fair that they had to be two people.

Flicking the pages in frustration Toby pushed himself back from the desk and stood up. Out of sight and out of mind; he’d put the notebook away and leave the library to mope in private. As much as he might have liked to, it wasn’t as if Toby had anyone to offload to, he certainly wasn’t going to accept an audience to the sulk he felt brewing his chest. He headed straight over to the usual spot in the non-fiction section, feeling absolutely no need to pretend now that he was going anywhere else, eyes dark as he glared at the ground, not sure what he was feeling at all. In his hurry, Toby nearly ran straight into Adil. Again.

Adil stood frozen, knuckles nearly white where he gripped _the Picture of Dorian Gray_ to his chest, like it might shield him from whatever onslaught he seemed to be expecting from Toby. Grey twilight filtered in through the tiny windows far above them, casting the entire library in a static hue, many of the students having already retreated to their rooms for the evening.

Toby blinked, feeling his face go lax, brows furrowing as he tried to suppress his hope, feeling slightly ill when he saw Adil’s face crumple, eyes already shining with something that might have been tears. He clung to the notebook, a parodic mirror to the way Adil clutched the novel, Adil nearly trembling with the effort of not shying away when Toby didn’t move, swallowing harshly as he stared up at Toby, blinking in confusion as Toby’s face softened into something akin to awe, lighting up with unconcealed relief.

“It’s you.” Toby’s voice was little more than a whisper, nearly breaking on the final syllable.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry that it’s me, Toby, I…” the words choked themselves off in Adil’s throat, a bizarre parody of so many times Toby had tried to speak to him, he almost could have laughed.

Toby’s face collapsed into one of confusion, his hand falling back to his side, fingers flexing anxiously. “You knew?”

“Toby, I see you nearly every single day, did you think I wouldn’t see what you were reading? That I wouldn’t notice they were the same books being left for me?”

“I didn’t think- nobody ever notices me,” Toby murmured, staring down at Adil’s hands where they remained clenched around the book.

“Toby, I _always_ notice you,” he whispered, staring hopelessly at his feet. “I’m sorry.”

Toby stepped forward then, into Adil’s space, not letting up even as Adil’s head snapped up, eyes staring directly into his. He walked him backwards until Adil’s back hit the shelves, pressed up against him enough that the book dug into his stomach and lower chest. One hand braced against the shelves behind Adil, the other reaching out to cup his jaw, feather-light, anxiety finally shook from his veins.

“Don’t be,” he whispered, smiling as Adil tilted his head up, lips ghosting against Toby’s. “You’re exactly who I’d hoped it would be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was so much harder to write than it had any right to be. I hope its worth it, i literally cant tell any more. but just the epilogue to go!


	8. Epilogue - July 1940

She watched the boys carefully after Toby returned home from Oxford, Emma talking circles around both of them, the three of them evidently thrilled to be back in each other’s company, even if the circumstances were harsher than they might have expected, Freddie’s title settling heavily on his shoulders, Toby trying almost vainly not to disappear into the shadows.

July sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting crisscrossed shadows over the floor of the foyer where tape had been placed to reinforce the panes, counting down the hours until Freddie would have to return to the airbase, the weeks until Toby left for Oxford again, the finite time Priscilla would have left with her boys before the left once again.

Emma and Freddie would sneak off down to the basement together again, feigning work and preparation for the bomb shelter that had long since been established under the hotel, though it would not have taken a genius to figure out what was going on there. At any rate, Toby never felt the need to follow them, watching as they ran off together and rolling his eyes as he returned to his books. 

Priscilla always felt that when Toby returned from Oxford that he spent the entire break itching to go back. In as much as she understood – the hotel had always been as much a prison, in its own way, as a home – there was much she felt she was missing to her, even more so now perhaps that Lawrence was gone. Toby could be found, far more often, seated in the bar, cocktail to one side, a book open in front of him, a letter already peaking from between the pages, pen in hand and scrawling relentlessly, pausing to suppress a laugh, though Priscilla could hardly understand what was so amusing to her son. The change in him, the confidence in his posture, the smitten look in his eye when he read.

There was an American who’d just arrived at the hotel barely two months prior, who’d talk journalism and writing jobs with Toby in the bar in between, always a bourbon on hand and a cigarette never far from his mouth swearing up and down; _“Ghostwriting kid, I reckon you could be good at it-”_ Toby nodding along, one part amused, one part genuine curiosity. The rest a burning impatience, though not through any amount of dislike as far as Priscilla could tell, to return to his letters, his book, something scrawled across the page that had captured her son like she’d never seen him before.

Priscilla caught sight of the cover as Mr O’Hara retired from the bar, martini glass emptied and a notebook of his own in hand. Little more than a glimpse before Toby pressed it back down against his lap, attempting to smother a grin with a hand as he hid behind his fringe, leaning back carelessly against the bar like he’d never permitted himself to before. A pressed green cover with a silver decorative border, and the title in harsh capitals; _The Iliad._

“Greeks…” she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose, certainty settling on her shoulders.

Both boys had grown a great deal in the last year, the death of their father only making it more evident, but it would seem that, watching them leave again, and again, no tear tracks on Toby’s face as he left for the train, Freddie’s blank face barely masking his own relief at leaving the hotel, again and again. But where Toby had been shaking hands and stuttered words, he now stood settled in himself, certain of something, confident even, for the first time in his life. Priscilla was certain she would never hear what occurred during Toby’s time at Oxford, what had let him release that breath, set his feet that much firmer against the ground, and as she watched her son now, Priscilla was more than happy to continue in her ignorance.

Perhaps it had been too much to hope that it was a girl causing Toby to grin giddily down at the notes tucked in his novels, causing him to trace the lines with a finger as he stared down at the page with an intensity that felt far too intimate for the lounge. Perhaps it had always been too much to hope that Toby would change, in any capacity, if only to make his life just a little easier on himself, though looking at him now, Priscilla couldn’t imagine why she had ever thought so. There seemed, to her, to be two great loves in Toby Hamilton’s life; his books, which had always been the case, since his fifth birthday at the country estate, and whoever it was that had caught his heart in writing and sketches, in letters and across the pages of novels and poetry.

So perhaps it had been too much to hope that it was a girl causing Toby to grin giddily down at the notes tucked in his novels and causing him to trace the lines with a finger with an intensity that felt far too intimate for the lounge. But perhaps it was just enough to hope, that at the very least, he was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we are, finally at the end!
> 
> apologies if this is not the epilogue you were hoping for, I do have a sequel planned where I'll actually write out Toby and Adil actually together if anyone is interested. I have an outline already, but if anyone has a specific trope or idea that they'd like to see I'd love to hear it!   
> while you wait for that though, because I need a break, you can read [my other fics for the halcyon](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Bfandom_ids%5D%5B%5D=14161391&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Lucy_Ferrier). [this one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25726135) is nearly as long, it should tide you over until i get my ass back in gear.
> 
> thanks again for sticking with me through this! I've had a blast!


End file.
